Strangers to Ourselves
by mary.dewitt
Summary: For the first twenty odd years of my life I truly believed that I knew myself. I had a set direction straight into normality and then one day everything changed. Finding out you've been lied to your entire life is is hard enough to handle without a pair of strangers that call themselves hunters getting thrown into the mix. {Mid Season 10}
1. Prologue

**{Prologue}**

The first thing you need to know about me is that I wasn't always like this. For a majority of my life I was utterly normal. A cliché one could say. A member of the southern middle class with all the unfair advantages unjustly awarded to me at my birth. I did debate in high school, graduated from a two year college, and worked half a dozen dead end jobs. My parents have their religion but sleep in separate houses. To put it bluntly, if life were a spice I would have been flour.

Things weren't always this screwed up. That all changed the day I met them...well, relatively at least.

Months before my life had taken an unusual turn to say the least. One day I woke up and it seemed as if the entire world had changed in a blink. All things considered, I was adjusting pretty well with my current circumstance. Acclimating to the sudden and constant rush of voices. Training myself to drown them out. I even 'chose' to move out of state and live with my reclusive aunt Myrtle. I thought I knew heat and humidity growing up in Charlotte North Carolina but it was nothing compared to the swamps of Louisiana. Two steps out the door and half of your makeup is already melted off. During the summer months no matter how low you crank the AC or how many fans you turn on you're never really cool. Just less unbearably hot.

At first I had no idea what to expect. I had never once met my aunt and the only contact I ever had with her growing up were Christmas and birthday cards. Crumpled five dollar bills falling out over small scribbles about how 'she wished she were there to say it in person.' Not to mention everyone in my family talks about her as if she's _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ crazy. Apparently she lives in my great grandparent's old run down summer home with a half dozen cats and never takes a step off the property. A southern version of _Grey Gardens_ minus all the political connections _._ Knowing now what she had truly gone through it's obvious she was never crazy. No more than myself. Remembering the way my mother used to toss those cards quickly into the trash still makes my heart twist with guilt.

The day the unthinkable happened my mother ushered me into her lavish bedroom and quickly sat me down. A glass of wine in one hand as the other feverishly dug into her bedside drawer. The evening sun shown in on us through the sheer curtains. Giving the room an odd sort of other worldly glow. It did nothing to lessen how petrified my mother looked. Eyes wide. Bracelets jingling against each other as her hands shake. I couldn't hide the shock I felt as two small white pills were shoved into my hand. Mother never shared much of anything. When I was five she grounded me for week just for using one of her spare bed sheets to build a fort. The thought of her voluntarily giving up two of her prized Valium was almost laughable;none the less, here I sat. Two of mother's little helpers patiently waiting in the palm of my hand. In that moment I knew that whatever was coming, whatever terrible secret that was about to be revealed, would likely knock me over. I dry swallowed them in one harsh gulp and did my best to ignore the putrid taste they left in the back of my throat. I was expecting the worst but even I wasn't prepared for the awful truth of it all.

Downing the rest of her glass of wine in three large gulps, my mother sat it down loudly atop her one of a kind rosewood marble nightstand, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. My mother was usually so polished and put together. So unnerved by anything that was thrown her way. When she found out my father was cheating she didn't throw a huge fit or slash his tires. She blackmailed him into giving her the house in the divorce settlement. To see her unraveling like this was the first of many warning signs of what was to come. Without the slightest hesitation she admitted that she had always known. Had always been aware that what had happened to me was a possibility.

Apparently being able to hear people's thoughts ran in the family.

My jaw hung open as I watched her, searching for any sign of a true emotion. Instead she only stares at her empty wine glass as if looking at it hard enough would cause it to magically refill itself. I on the other hand was too busy trying to process the amount of truth that was being dumped at my feet. Still as a stone I watched as my mother began nervously ringing her hands. Looking anywhere but at me.

My own mother, afraid to look me in the eye.

The woman who had birthed me, given me her mother's name, and raised me all my life suddenly seemed like a guilty child. Frightened by my very presence. She told me she had prayed to God every night that it would skip my generation. Turn up in one of my crazy cousins. Fade out entirely. Sadly for myself and everyone else involved God had stopped taking my mother's calls back in the seventies. A few tense days later and it was decided it would be best for everyone if I spent some time away for awhile. A chance to get out of town so I could have a fresh start.

Pardon my language, but that's a crock of shit.

From the very first moment it was suggested I knew there was no way of getting out it. This wasn't an option. I had no say in this. Truthfully, I hadn't had the best luck with finding work and my paychecks more often than not left me behind on either my rent or one of my other various bills. My mother pointed out that this way I could lighten my financial burden by moving in with family who wouldn't charge me. More importantly, it will put as much distance between my parents and myself as possible. She never said the last bit but she didn't have to.

The day I left, the three of us stood silent in the doorway of my mother's modest two story brick house. It was the first time I had seen my parents in the same room since my graduation nearly two years before. Standing there with my bags and suitcase at my side I can't help from digging my nails into the back of my arm. Hoping that by some miracle I wouldn't feel it. That I would wake up and realize this had all be some horrific nightmare. It did nothing of the sort. It just hurt like hell. Leaving behind tiny red crescent marks on my fair skin.

Neither my farther nor my mother looked me in the eye as they each told me how sorry they were that I was leaving and how much they would miss me. This was all about formalities. Handling this very unusual situation as normally as possible. They didn't have to say it allowed. I read it easily in their thoughts. Clear as a bell.

 _They wanted me gone._

Biting my lip hard enough to break skin I attempted to hide the discomfort on my face. When the taxi driver begins to honk his horn impatiently I have to lock my knees to keep from running out the door. Failing to steady my trembling hands I still somehow manage to open the car door and climb inside. My father too busy loading the last of my things into the trunk to say good bye. Glancing out the window I can make out my mother's outline standing in the front doorway. Her shoulders jerking up up up and down with small stifled sobs.

There were no hugs or bittersweet goodbyes. Just the click of my seat belt and the heavy slam of the trunk closing. My father waves casually from his old pick up while mother ran inside. Hands covering her face. The red door slamming shut behind her and causing her monogrammed reef to clatter to the floor. The hum of the taxi's engine turned over as we pulled away from the curb, and just like that, I was gone.

Roughly ten months later and I'm lacing up my shoes for another full day of waiting tables while my aunt sits dozing in the small sun room. The tv busy recording her shows quietly in the background. Thank goodness I finally taught her how to use the DVR or she would never be able to keep up. Aunt Myrtle is a character to say the least. She loves television almost as much as she loves reading. The majority of her house is covered in books. Random stacks here and there. Shelves covering nearly every bit of wall space. Not the slightest bit organized. If you wanted to find one the best chance was to look for something else. Inevitably you'll come across it.

It had only taken a few weeks of living together for me to realize that my aunt is undoubtedly one of the kindest people I have ever met. She had lived on her own for so long I thought for sure she would be cold and unwelcoming but she was entirely the opposite. She hums constantly. Is always baking something delicious and has a razor sharp wit. Not to mention mildly crepuscular.

Grabbing my car keys and jacket I tip toe over to where she sits lightly snoring in her favorite chair. Chicken legs propped atop the ottoman. Picking up the still open book from her lap I mark the page before sitting it atop the coffee table. Her blanket has slumped to her knees and I pull it slowly atop her before tucking it in lightly to keep her warm. It was getting cooler out each day but Myrtle loved leaving the windows open. Said the fresh air helped her focus.

"Thanks suga bae." She mumbles. Eyes still closed. Long fingers gripping onto the blanket and pulling it up to her chin. Sometimes I swore she was half cat with how often she napped; even so, as soon as I returned she would be wide open as a case knife with dinner and desert warm and waiting.

My family has missed out on so much for shunning her.

Just as they have me.

In truth, yes aunt Myrtle is a bit of a hermit but hasn't stopped her from knowing nearly everyone in town. She talks on the phone constantly. Apparently we can't hear peoples thoughts through it which is one upside. Plus, there is always her baking. She grows all her own veggies and fruits in a little garden in the back yard. Given that her ingredients are always so fresh her specialty pies pull their own weight with the community. She even managed to set me up with a job at a small diner right off of the main highway. Under the condition that I would frequently bring in one of her homemade pies for the boss to sell up front. When she first approached me about it the thought of being around all those people was fucking terrifying. For the first two weeks after I moved in I hardly went outside. Usually just to get the mail.

'It's the strongest at the beginning' She had told me. 'You'll adjust in time'

At first I hadn't believed her. Having to hear all the voices made me want to yank my hair out. Even having to sign for packages from the UPS man felt like slow torture, but after a certain point I realized I had one of two options.

A: I could shut myself in as my aunt has.

Or B: Woman up and deal with it.

I chose the latter.

Now after months of practice it's almost like flipping a switch. Staying busy helps and I've quickly made a name for myself as a hard worker. Occasionally a thought or two will slip through the cracks in my mind and I'll have to step outside for a cigarette break even though I don't really smoke. It's the privacy I crave. The quiet. Not the nicotine. Then it's back into the fray, refilling glasses of sweet tea, and checking in on my tables.

I hardly even notice the two men that sat down in my section until the one facing my direction clears his throat loudly to gain my attention. Forcing a smile I acknowledged him and grab two menus from off the wall. Lucky for them they picked the last available booth. Half of the chairs and tables in this place desperately need to be replaced and require a book a matches slid beneath a leg or two to keep from wobbling. As I move closer I do my best to steady my breathing. In an out. Today's a Friday and our busiest day of the week. I had opened and still hadn't gotten off work because my replacement decided not to show up. My feet are throbbing and my nerves feel shot. With each passing hour it's becoming more difficult to shut it all out.

The endless parade of thoughts.

Reminding myself to smile I quickly straighten my mint and white trimmed skirt. Pulling my pad and pen out from my front pocket I make my way over to their booth. The two men are dressed similarly; canvas jackets paired with flannel. Both look a bit worn down but it does little to diminish their looks. I can't lie, they are both equally attractive to say the least. Taking a deep gulp I push forward.

"Welcome to Dean's Diner, my name is Penny. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

My voice is laced with the fake enthusiasm that I only ever use at work. Waiting tables pays less than minimum wage and I rely heavily on my tips. Glancing out the large window directly in front of me I can just make out the the sun as it begins to fade behind the tree tops with their changing shades of red and orange. Blanketing the entire diner in warm autumn light.

Both men order draft beer and seeing as it's at least half pass five I don't judge. If I was wasn't working I would be right there with them. Hell, we have customers that stumble in here at eleven in the morning already half drunk and still tossing cocktails back like they're ginger ale.

When I return with two full glasses, both men know their order. A bacon cheeseburger with a side of fries, plus a slice of pecan pie for one and a garden salad for the other. Two complete opposite ends of the food spectrum. Ten minutes later and I'm half way to their table when I notice they seem to be in deep conversation. The one with longer hair sits with a laptop in front of him. Hands resting atop to the keyboard while the other leans forward, speaking in a hushed deep voice I can't quite make out. Realizing this, I try to let them know I'm coming and give them time to wrap it up.

I hated invading others privacy in any shape or form.

Perhaps I'm not obvious enough. Maybe my steps too soft because neither of the two men notice me until I've began the process of sitting down their meals. Balancing those trays isn't anywhere near as easy as one would think. It takes a skill that came only from experience. Choosing to get rid of the heavier of the two plates first I grab a hold of the bacon cheeseburger and lean forward to sit it in front of the gentlemen on the left who had ordered it. He grins up at me with wide green eyes and quickly rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Happily preparing to dig into his greasy burger as if it were a filet mignon. I know it's pointless to give him utensils but it's a store policy. As I move to sit the silverware beside him my wrist brushes ever so gently against the exposed flesh of his forearm. The touch of skin to skin with mine makes every hair on my body stand on end.

That's all it took.

Like a blow to the brain a sudden rush of images comes flooding into my mind. A thousand cold waves crashing over me at once. I see it all. A man in black with gray, almost silver hair and a thick beard. A gruesome blood soaked blade trembling in a shaking hand. A mass of bodies littered among a cold open field. Seared flesh. A scar. A story played out before I even know its started. When I'm at last able to pull myself away the tray has slipped from my hands and lays spread out across the tile floor. Lettuce and broken porcelain are scattered everywhere and something else. Red and bright. More drops appearing before my eyes.

"Hey take it easy." Says the shorter man, the one whose arm I had grazed, while rising from the table. His voice thick with concern. Hands outstretched to help steady me. The last possible thing I wanted is anymore physical contact. I've had close calls before, times when thoughts had seemed so loud and clear it was as if I could actually picture them in my mind.

This though, this was entirely different.

Never had I experienced anything even close to it. The clarity with which I saw it. My aunt hadn't once mentioned such a thing. Voices were bad enough, but images? It didn't add up. Stumbling back into the nearest table I recoil from the stranger whom it now feels I know far to well. Salt and pepper shakers clatter against each other as I grip the tables corner. It isn't till his eyes glance down at my blouse that I discover the source of the crimson drops. The front of my uniform is littered with blood. My blood. Reaching up I find the culprit. My nose has began bleeding with reckless abandon. I don't ask to be excused. I don't say a word to anyone. Not even my boss as he hurries around the counter with his face full of worry. Waving him off I cup my nose in my hands and dash out the side door.

The cool autumn air chills my skin as I step out into the parking lot. Causing tiny goosebumps to rise on my arms and legs. Looking around I don't see any customers and hurry to the furthers parking block. It's where I always come on breaks. A huge mossy oak looms over head. It's limbs shaking as much as my own. Inside my hands the blood begins to pool, warm and desperate for escape. Finally mustering up the courage I pull them away slowly. Spreading my fingers apart. The amount of red staring back at me makes my head spin.

I'm not doctor but this can't be good.

Suddenly the side door swings loudly and the two men from before hurry outside. The shorter one shoving his wallet in his pocket while the taller one glances around. Looking for what I hope isn't me. Leaning back I pull myself behind the low hanging folliage but it does me no good. It must be the blood loss because I feel like an idiot for even trying. As I watch them make their way in my direction my mind screams at me to jump up, to run from them, or find something to defend myself with. Yelling at me to make a choice.

Fight or flight.

"Stay back!" I demand as they approach. Holding up a blood soaked hand as my only physical defense. It does little to sway them and each step closer. "I'm serious don't fucking touch me!"

"Let us get you help. Something's clearly wrong." The taller one suggest. Trying to create a sense of calm while looking as non threatening as a six foot four man giant can look.

"What the hell did I just see?" I hiss, looking at the shorter one directly in those deer caught in the headlights eyes. "That man, that dark man with the gray hair and that blade with teeth." My voice sounding more frantic with each passing word. "Those people, all those poor people. That scar, that mark...why did I see that?"

For awhile neither of them say a word. Instead opting for sharing worried glances. The wind shifts direction and the dying leaves begin to swirl across our feet. Over their shoulders I can see the side door still half open and consider yelling for my boss. For some reason, I'm not sure why, but I don't. I merely sigh and keep my eyes firmly on the two strangers in front of me. Wondering how in the hell I got myself it such a situation.

Reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a red bandanna the shorter of the two men gingerly hands it over. For a moment I simply stare at it. Wondering if its doused in chloroform and I'll wake up hours from now god knows where. If I woke up at all. Still, the blood is beginning to spill from my grasp and down my hands. Slowly I take it for him and take a whiff before pressing it to my nose. Before my mind can tell me to move the shorter man has settled himself next to me. The fabric atop our shoulders brush slightly as he yanks at the bottom of his jacket. Situating himself.

"That man you saw was Cain, as in Cain and Able." He answers rather bluntly. His gruff voice strangely calm. Clearly not fazed by how crazy he sounds. Turning to face me he rolls up his sleeve to expose what appears to be a peculiar type of burn scar; yet, somehow I know it isn't anything quite so simple. Gazing at it feels like dejavu. I've seen it before. I know I've seen it. "This scar is his mark."

"Bullshit." The words fly from my mouth before I can catch up to them. My grasp on the bandanna disappears entirely and even though I can feel it sliding through my finger tips I'm powerless to stop it. Frozen.

Cain and Able, I know that story.

Practically everyone raised in the south knows that story. They don't call it the Bible belt for nothing. The man sitting next to me picks up the bloody piece of fabric and begins holding it firmly against my nose. Oddly considerate given the awful things I saw when I had accidentally touched him. If I had the energy perhaps I would've protested but I was way beyond the point of turning down random acts of kindness. No matter how screwy the situation.

Again the two men share glances. Somehow capable of communicating through shear body language alone. Whoever these two guys are, they've obviously known each other for what must be a long time. The taller one glances anxiously around the parking lot before pushing his fairly long hair aside. Bending down to my level he looks me in the eye. His are nearly the exact same shade as the other man's and I begin to wonder if they're related.

"I know this is hard to believe." He begins sympathetically. "But it's about as hard to believe that you got all that from just a single touch." Taking a deep breath he maintains his gaze while rising back to his full height. "What are you?"

Now it's my turn to be cross examined. Carefully I slide the bloody bandanna from both the man's grasp and my nose. Staring down at it for a moment. Noticing how the bits of white pattern have already began to turn crimson and blend in. I'm in a bad spot here. This could go so, so, horribly wrong. These men were complete strangers. Sure, I had taken a few self defense classes back in school but I knew better than to assume that I could hold my own against these two if necessary. Not to mention whatever it was that had happened back in the diner. Whatever I'm dealing with is completely new territory. So I do the only thing I could think of and probably the most illogical thing possible.

I tell them the truth.

"My name is Penelope Walker..." I begin. Struggling to find it in myself to say it out loud. To explain myself. To tell my darkest of secrets, to a pair of nameless men in the middle of a damn parking lot. Hell, I still haven't gotten my own mind wrapped around it entirely. I know, of course I know but the brutal truth of it always seems to get stuck in my throat. Gazing up anxiously between the two of them my heart sinks. I'm out of options. This time there was no far fetched excuse or flat out lie I could use to cover my tracks. Honestly was all I had at this point. "And I can hear your thoughts."

 **{End Prologue}**

* * *

Decided to go back and do some reediting. No drastic changes. Just a few flourishes.

Thanks for the reviews/fave/follows. Y'all are awesome.

-Mary


	2. Chapter One

{Chapter One}

 **Fall**

The two men begin asking questions as soon as the heavy car doors slam shut behind us. Normally I wouldn't just leave work like this but I don't typically get into cars with strangers either. Even so, I slide into the wide back seat and buckle myself in. Never taking my eyes off the two sitting up front. I haven't even gotten names yet. The one with the mark is driving while his tall shaggy haired companion is busy typing my address into his phone.

"It's not bringing anything up." He sighs. "I must've put it in wrong."

"Nah, you put it in right." I answer, my voice sounding nasally as I continue pressing the now soaked bandanna against my still bleeding nose. Hoping that the pressure will stop it or at least stem the flow a bit. "The house is set a ways back on the property. It never shows up in google maps.

"Well, lets hope you're good with directions." The one driving replies mildly sarcastic.

"Just stay on the highway till you hit County Line Road. Then it's just a few miles and a right on Ellis drive." I barely finish my sentence when I notice that my left forearm is blanketed in thick streams of blood. Long red legs that have inched their way down to my elbow. Supposedly you can lose a pint of blood before you begin to feel the side effects.

"You alright?" The taller one asks, leaning over his seat to glance at me. His eyes instantly widen with concern. It's obvious he wasn't expecting me to be in such a state when he asked.

"Do I look alright?" I mumble.

Yanking off my apron with my free hand I wrap it around the other. Hoping to soak up the blood. Now I've ruined all of my uniform. Another thirty bucks down the drain. Work policy states all waitress must have two uniforms in their possession at all times. One for work, one for home. That way if some screaming child with oblivious parents runs into you full speed and splays table three's dessert all over your uniform you'll always have a spare. Also, it removes the chance for the excuse of 'I have to go home and change'. The first two uniforms are supplied but after that it's out of pocket or out of paycheck. This is new work policy. We're also suppose to wear those godawful no slip shoes but as long as we swear to never sue the bossman looks the other way.

Gotta love upper management.

"Lean your head back!" The one driving exclaims. Glancing in the rear view mirror to look back at me. His thoughts filled more with anxiety over the possibility of me dirtying up his car than my bleeding like a stuck pig.

"If I lean my head back anymore I'll drown!" I reply equally as insensitive.

After that no one speaks. It's a welcome change. One thing I particularly hate is useless conversation. People with that weird subconscious need to fill the silence. Me, I love it. Perhaps because I so rarely get to enjoy it. As we all settle into our seats the only noises that reach us come from the cool air blowing through their open windows. The engine of the classic steel beauty roaring beneath us. There's no music. Nothing to look at. No real distraction for me to focus my attention on. The sad fact is that it probably wouldn't make much of a difference anyway.

Disconnecting myself as best as I can is proving a much larger obstacle. If I had been jumping hurdles before I was suddenly rock climbing. My mind feels like a radio suddenly tuned into the correct frequency. Volume cranked to the max. No kill switch. I wish my body would just go into some sort of sensory overload and shut itself down. A sort of crazy telepathic built in natural instinct. Sadly I'm not that lucky. There is only open space; yet, somehow tangible. As if I can feel every inch just by thinking of it.

Unbuckling myself I scoot to the other side of the large back seat that is suddenly far too confining. It's not safe but given the current circumstance I honestly don't care. With my one free hand I quickly roll down the driver's side window and lean my head against the cool metal frame. Hoping the fresh air might level me out or at least provide a distraction. Anything to keep me from dwelling on how quickly my world has again been altered. How something as simple as a single accidental touch between two complete strangers managed to make things in my life even more troublesome than I thought possible.

Gradually we pull off the highway and the open fields are quickly replaced by a sea of houses. The majority are old but well kept. This far inland we don't have to worry about hurricanes as much as the coastal region. The worst thing that usually happens is we lose power for a few days or people's basements flood. The latter of which I can't bring myself to feel too terribly bad for. I mean honestly, who builds a basement in a state that's almost completely under sea level? We essentially live in a massive geographical punch bowl.

Regardless of such truths most everyone who lives here does so because they were born here. For such a small town, such a random spot on a map, Lafayette Hollow still has an odd sort of charm to it. It's rural, and almost always humid no matter the season. Festive decorations hang from every street light and store shop window as we pass through downtown. On nearly every corner stands some quaint family owned business. Bakeries, boutiques, and hardware stores. It's a bit like living inside an edition of the Saturday Evening Post but the community is tight nit and the vast majority are truly good people. Strangers wave to each other politely. Rather it be at the super market or to that one kind soul that lets you over in heavy traffic. Just one of many odd southern idiosyncrasies. Like stopping for passing funeral processions or adding a ridiculous amount of sugar to already sweet tea.

Most every home we pass has their Halloween decorations out. Pumpkins sit atop porches. Already carved. Preparing for the coming weekend. School children hop happily from buses in full costume. Running into the arms of parents who stand patiently waiting for their return. Bags already full from the town's after school version of trick or treat. Normally they would simply do it on the night of Halloween but seeing as it falls on a Sunday this year it was decided by the city to celebrate it early. This deep in the south people still take the Sabbath seriously. One child, a light haired boy, dashes out from the bus we're stuck behind. On his back he wears a _Star Wars_ backpack almost identical to the one I had as a child. Watching with a curious sort of fixation from the car's window as the boy's father scoops him up off the sidewalk to lift over his shoulders. The son's laughter drifts in through the open windows and fills every inch of the large vehicle.

My heart swells and shatters all at once.

Twenty five years. Twenty five years of living in my home town, attending every family occasion, and I've never experienced such an open display of love from my father. Not even close to what I saw from this stranger while he tightly hugs his son. Sitting the little boy back down the father turns on his heal. Happy to race him up the front steps and into their happy home. The stop sign attached to the side of the school bus pulls itself against its siding before turning and I feel the car accelerate beneath me. The weight of such a completely incidental moment doesn't fade. It lingers thick in the air. All of us had seen and it brought the same thought to all of our minds.

Our fathers.

It's always been considered such an pivotal role in a child's up bringing. Having their father around. Someone to teach you how to play catch. Give you piggy back rides. All the usual cliche dad character tropes.

Now, you can blame almost anything on daddy issues.

People crack jokes about it. It's a stereotype, but I suppose the same can be said about the truth. In each of the strangers minds they think of their father as __the old man__. An identical image appears in each of their thoughts. They must be brothers. Regardless of their chosen nickname judging by their thoughts the old man hadn't even lived into his mid fifties. He's been gone for years now but it's obvious that both of his sons shared a heavy sense of loss. Each knew their father had been far from perfect; none the less,, they share a profound mutual respect for him.

 _He had done his best._

On the other hand, my father is very much alive and we'll speak to each other a handful of times in a year. That had been when I was still living in Charlotte. Now, well I doubt that I'll ever hear from him again. Most people would be upset over such a loss but at the core of it I knew that for some strange unknown reason my father intensely disliked me. Perhaps because I hadn't turned out like my older brothers. To be honest, I can't even see a resemblance. I was better off, all things considered, in my father's absence.

Settling back into my seat I begin to feel a tad better; even so, I can hear most everything on the two strangers minds. If I were ever so inclined to sit down and write a list as to the top things that make life as a telapath difficult:number one, would be how much you can learn about someone before you even know their names.

"Left or right?" The one driving asks somewhat impatiently.

Looking up to the faded street sign I feel a sudden rush of hope. Realizing just how close we are to home. How close we are to the one place I feel comfortable and safe these days. Aunt Myrtle will know some way to fix this. Surely she will. She's a self proclaimed expert on what it is we are.

"Right." I answer. "You'll be able to see the chimney from the street."

The next few minutes pass in an uneasy silence. Even so, I can sense their thoughts racing. Trying to figure out just what it is they've stumbled upon. Considering all the endless possibilities of how this could turn out. What they might be forced to do.

 _What if this was all just an elaborate trap and something was waiting for them once we reached our destination?_

 _Would I go full on crazy dark side and jump them?_

 _Was I a monster, something to be 'handled'?_

All these thoughts so loud and clear and for some reason I can't block out a single one. No filter whatsoever. It's torture having to hear exactly what people think of you. Behind the thin layer of politeness always lies a certain degree of harsh judgment. All of the rude things people think of, but would never dare to actually say out loud...

I hear them.

Granted, I've put in the time training myself to block it out. To some degree at least. After what had happened though. What I had seen. It's as if the entire wall I had spent so much time erecting in my head crumbled in a matter a seconds. My defenses gone. A wounded solider stuck out in no mans land. Praying that some brave soul would come risk their own hide to drag me to safety but instead I lie there. Completely exposed. Slowly bleeding out.

Finally we reach the pale yellow house with its bits of chipped vinyl and assortment of hanging plants. I must be at or nearing a pint of blood lost because I can't even manage the stairs. The shorter one leads me by the elbow. Making sure to cautiously keep the thick fabric of our jackets between us. The taller ones hand hasn't even reached the bright red front door to knock before it swings open. My aunt Myrtle with her mess of ginger curls and bare feet is on me quicker than you can slap a tick. Her welcoming arms wrap themselves tightly around me. Draping me momentarily in one of her lacy shawls. Ever so slowly, her aging hands delicately remove the now soaked bandanna from my pale grasp. Giving me a solemn once over. The deep sigh that escapes her lips and the somber look in her eyes causes my heart to sink even further into my stomach.

"Y'all best come on in." She states softly "We need to have us a talk."

Before I can reply aunt Myrtle has turned her back to rush inside. Feet pitter pattering atop the old hardwood floors. The creaks echoing though out the old house with every step. I'm not sure how but I find myself following her inside. Waving the two strangers behind me to do the same. After all, this concerns them as well.

Shaking off my jacket I hang it on the coat rack nailed to the wall behind the front door and make my way into the small kitchen. The walls are painted an almost identical shade of yellow as the outside. The floors checkered with large black and white squares and nearly all the counter top appliances are red. Even though my aunt Myrtle never really leaves the house she goes shopping on a fairly regular basis. She adores the home shopping network channel and once I introduced her to amazon it was over. When my grandparents passed she had inherited a hefty chunk of cash. Coupled with her disability checks that come in each month, allow her to live from the comfort of her own home. Which is exactly what she intends to do. Even I had brought a few things along with me. Small things. A handful of lamps and paintings. The house isn't much but at least after nearly a year it's beginning to feel like home.

Taking a seat at the table I wait and watch as Myrtle begins brewing a pot of coffee.

We never drink coffee this late in the day.

While the coffee maker hums away aunt Myrtle dashes about the kitchen, grabbing a handful of cookies and pouring a tall glass of juice. Sitting them both in front of me she remains silent. Motioning for me to eat. I have absolutely no appetite but I do remember the nurses in college giving out cookies and juice to the volunteers at the blood drive. As someone with type O blood it was always expected of me to donate.

I always did, and I always passed out.

Reaching forward I begin sipping the sweet orange juice while struggling to hold my bleeding nose. Not a second later Myrtle hands me a fresh dish rag and a straw. Tossing the soaked bandanna into the sink behind her. The cookies come next and after the second one I'm beginning to feel noticeably better. By the time she begins handing out cups of hot coffee to the strangers I can clearly see her hands trembling. Sending tiny drops of the hot liquid onto the table cloth and her petite, jewel covered fingers. She's trying to hide it as she sits a cup next to me, still motioning for me to finish up my juice and cookies first.

For a moment I try peering inside her thoughts but am met with only a thick wall. She's blocking me out.

This is bad.

All I can think about is the day I found out undoubtedly that I could read peoples minds. How I had been kicked out of school a semester shy of getting my degree. How my mother and father had all but disowned me as a result. The fear of that happening again makes me want to cry into my coffee rather than add sugar to it.

Once we all have our mix matched cups, sitting in our mix matched chairs, aunt Myrtle finally takes a seat next to me at the small oak table. Ivory laced table cloth draped atop its cool surface. In one hand she balances a half full cup of dark coffee and in the other she holds a book. It's old and weathered. Its pages aged with time, obvious even from this distance.

"This suga," She begins as she lays what I hope is merely an old journal atop the table. "Has everything I, or any of our kin, has ever known about our conditions."

Passing the book to me gently Myrtle turns her attention to the two strangers. Neither of them seem comfortable enough to drink they're coffee and peering inside their minds I find a fear that perhaps it's been somehow tampered with. Reaching forward I quickly pour creamer and sugar into my own and begin stirring it with a spoon. It's still incredibly hot from having just been brewed but I blow away the steam before taking a sip. Relishing the way it instantly warms me up. People either love coffee or they hate it. For me, it was like a warm security blanket in a cup. A few seconds later and the strangers follow suit. Each relaxing slightly as they exchange the two table top containers between themselves.

"Normally I would ask for an introduction seeing as down here in the south we're supposedly known for our hospitality, but in times like this it just seems silly." Myrtle chuckles with her overly southern draw "You're John's boys aren't you?"

If the feeling in the room was tense before it just became about a dozen times more so. I've never heard Myrtle mention this John man before but I can see his face clearly in each of their thoughts. The same man from before. Their father. The moment in the car earlier comes to mind and I sit back again. Allowing this moment to play itself out. Sometimes the best way to get answers is by staying quiet and simply listening.

"You knew our dad?" The shorter of the two asks instantly, putting aside his coffee and leaning over the table. Nearly knocking my cup over with his elbow.

"We met a couple times, helped him on a few cases in the surrounding counties." Sipping her coffee Myrtle takes her time looking at the two strangers over the top of her red rimmed glasses. "You must be Sam." She adds, nonchalantly pointing at the taller one before slowly turning her eyes to the other. "And you must be Dean."

The one who I had touched, this Dean. Whose horrible past, future, or whatever it was I had seen, nods while picking up his cup with a odd sort of smirk. An emotion I can't quite put my finger on. At least he isn't a complete stranger anymore. He has a name. Something I can remember him by other than all those terrible images. Sitting there, watching the conversation completely from a by standers perspective I'm powerless to stop myself from opening that door. Down in my mind where I don't care to go and for a moment it's as if I can see everything through his hazel eyes.

How strange this all seems. How ridiculous the odds of finding someone like me by picking a place to eat for the simple fact that it shared his name. I can sense him struggling. Wanting to turn his attention to me. Desperate for some sort of reassurance. As if I hold the answers to all the questions he has and my god they're so many. Dozens of them racing around in his head. Shouted all at once from every corner of his mind yet still somehow laudable. Unfortunately I don't have the answers he seeks. There is one thing though... One horrible truth.

"He's going to keep killin'." I mutter softly. Catching them all off guard, having remained quiet for so long while the three were busy talking about how Myrtle had met their father years ago. "Cain, he's not going to stop."

The entire room falls silent, even the fan above us stops its creaking with every rotation. Letting go of the rag and gently brushing the top of my lip I can tell that the bleeding had blessedly came to an end. The two men, Sam and Dean, sit stunned while aunt Myrtle merely puts down her cup with a long sigh.

"It's his bloodline." I continued, stirring my coffee for a second before letting go and watching as the spoon continues to spin before gradually coming to a stop. "He's trying to eradicate it."

"How do you know this?" Dean asks gruffly, his voice like gravel and whine all mixed as one.

"Because my dears," My aunt Myrtle interjects. Gently opening the old worn book that sits in front of me. Delicately turning through its pages. "Our sweet Penelope isn't just a mere telepath like yours truly."

And that's when it hits me. What she had said before...'conditions' not condition.

"Than what am I?" I stammer. Panic hiding underneath my accent. Mentally I berate myself for not doing a better job of holding it together. Scooting her chair closer aunt Myrtle leans forward and turns the book towards me. Carefully flipping through the pages before finally stopping at a particular one. On it, tapped in finely by its corners lays a photo of a woman I could have sworn I knew. There was something so familiar about her.

Like an acquaintance from school whose face I recognize but can't match to a name.

"You sweet child," Myrtle beems, turning away from the book in her hands and reaching out to untuck a strand of hair from behind my ears. "Are a clairvoyant."

Every bit of air in my lungs is gone in an instant.

Explosive decompression at a thirty five thousand feet except no oxygen masks drop from the ceiling to help me catch my breath. Instead I sit there, silent as the grave as the truth I discovered begins disintegrating around me. Engines stalled. Nose down. Catching speed as I plummet towards the inevitable.

I was, never, ever going to be normal again.

"Do you mean psychokinetic?" Sam asks.

"It's comparable." Myrtle answers before turning her attention back to me. "See," She smiles while softly tapping the small handwritten print beneath the photo. "Your great grandmother Broomhilda was one as well."

The more she talks about our family's history the more excited aunt Myrtle's voice becomes. It's not often that we can be so open with strangers. I suppose these two men, these 'Hunters' are exceptions.

"The light hair is a dead give away, and those eyes sweetheart." Grabbing my chin gently in her hands she tilts my head back. Peering down at me as if I just climbed out of those worn pages rather than having slept across the hall for nearly a year. "All trademarks."

That's when it hits me like a splash of cold water to the face. If my aunt had known about this book, then my mother undoubtedly did too. Which would mean that she knew what I was most likely going to turn out to be. Maybe not entirely, but buried deep like a ghost at the back of a closet some part of her knew what I was.

Or at least what I could be.

And she had said fucking nothing.

"Why?" I ask, sucking the air in between my teeth. An invisible rope tightening around my throat. If I weren't on dry land I'd swear I was drowning. Grabbing Myrtle by the wrist I lightly shove her hand away. I don't want to be touched by anyone. "Why didn't anyone say something to me about this if it was all so obvious?"

Standing up from the table I make my way to the opposite side of the kitchen.

"What are you-" Myrtle begins but I silence her by holding up my bloody index finger. Pulling open the cabinet above the fridge I glance at the selection of liquor to choose from. Grabbing the nearest one I twist of the top.

"Oh honey!" Myrtle exclaims. "Tequila is no good with..."

Looking her in the eye I wrap my lips around the rim and gulp it down until my throat burns.

"...coffee."

"Okay I'm going to polish this off." I take another large swig and make my way back to the table. "And you," I point at Myrtle as I slide back into my chair. "you're going to tell me everything you know about what I am. No lies, no withholding, no sugar coating alright?"

Sighing Myrtle nods and takes a larger gulp of her bitter coffee. Honestly I have know idea how a woman so tiny and delicate looking as her can chug back cup after cup of black coffee and not end up in the ER or climbing the walls. Just goes to show that you can never judge a book by its cover. Especially when it comes to us girls. My aunt my look dainty but she was anything but.

"Lets start with the most obvious question." I begin, pulling the rag from my nose to expose the stain of blood on my skin. "Why is my nose on its period Myrtle?"

After that it was just one long history lesson. Everything my family has documented about the clairvoyants in our bloodline. I was only the third in a span of nearly two hundred years. Apparently we're rare yet thankfully enough my great grandmother Broomhilda was quite the writer and filled nearly a half dozen pages herself. The blood is apparently a claiming of sorts. A sort of symbolic affirmation of the gift of clairvoyance. Gift is the last word I would use to describe what I was going through. Broomhilda had also written about crippling headaches. Premonitions in the form of dreams and nightmares. Even the use of telekinesis on an occasion while under tremendous stress. The list goes on an on. When we at last reach the final entry I can sense the frustration inside me turning to anger. All of those questions I had asked Myrtle and the answers were here the whole time.

"Why did you keep this from me?" I demand. My hands begin trembling and I have to ball them into fist to keep them still.

"Suga bae I didn't want to go worrin' you till I knew for sure." Myrtle reaches for my hands again but I wrap them both around the bottle and continue drinking. Alcohol is a depressant but I'll take what little relief I can get.

"I mean look at your cousin Amy," Myrtle continues, "She's practically a carbon copy of your great grandmother and the best thing she's done with her life is graduate high school without having a baby."

"That's because Brody wasn't due till July!" I shout a tad bit too loudly. The color rushing to my cheeks while shaking my head at how stupidly far off the subject we had gotten.

Beside me I can hear Dean chuckle lightly. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Sam nudging his brother in the side. A disapproving glance aimed his way. It was a small comfort that at least I wasn't the only person taking this whole mess seriously. Crossing my arms I do my best to control the anger boiling up inside me. I had heard that exact same excuse before, minus the bit about my cousin Amy.

"You know." I sigh, struggling to voice the words myself. They were harsh. Mostly unwarranted. I already knew that, but this was suppose to be a home built on honesty. Not secrets. That hasn't kept my aunt, who I've grown to trust and love, from withholding all of this from me. "You sound just like mother."

Slamming the journal closed I shove it away from me. Nearly knocking over my chair as I spring up from the table and hurry out the screen door. I don't bother grabbing a coat. The thermometer outside says the temperature has dropped ten degrees but I can't feel it. I've read articles about people under extreme stress becoming numb to pain. Soldiers at war who have been shot and don't even realize it because of the adrenaline pumping through their veins. Mothers who will run through fire to save their children. In this instance it's more than likely just the alcohol but with the way today has been going it wouldn't surprise me much either way. This was getting down to basic instincts here.

Fight or flight.

I know what I had said must have hurt my already fragile aunt. That it had cut deep, but people such as myself...we're like wounded animals. Backed into a corner but still unwilling to give in.

If it comes down to it, we will tear you to shreds.

The cool air raises goosebumps as I hurry outside and around to the opposite end of the wrap around porch. Shivers soon follow. Only now does it occur to me that I haven't even changed out of my uniform. Worrying about such a trivial thing manages to make me feel even worse about myself as I settle atop the first step that leads down to the massive back yard. Wrapping my arms around myself I begin rocking gently. Partly to keep warm but mostly as a sad attempt to stop the knots twisting inside my stomach. Behind me I hear the screen door open. I don't have to look up to know it isn't Myrtle. The steps are too heavy to be her's and I don't recognize the thought signature.

Every mind has one, like a finger print. No two are the same. The more time I spend around people the more familiar I become with them. On most days I can pick up on my aunt's before even turning down the long driveway that leads to her house.

Knowing it had to be one of the two men from earlier I quickly wipe away the tears gathering in my eyes and straightened my posture. I hate crying under any circumstance. Whenever I feel that lump rising in the back of my throat I force it down. Never allowing myself to give in. Crying in front of a close friend is one thing, almost tolerable. Crying in front of someone I've just met is beyond ridiculous. I never want anyone seeing me like that.

"I'll go apologize in a sec," I mutter, glancing back to see the taller of the two men looking down at me. Brow furrowed. "I just need some fresh air."

The old porch floorboards begin to creak again as he moves to sit on the opposite side of the top step. His long legs nearly reaching the sidewalk. For awhile he says nothing. Instead keeping to himself quietly. Allowing me to sit in the silence. Broken only by the sound of leaves rustling and the last of the cicadas singing faintly in the distance. In a week they'll be none left. The entire yard will be a foot deep in dead leaves.

I suppose its just that time of year when most everything dies.

"You're Sam right?" I ask, finally breaking the silence. Smiling slightly, he simply nods before pushing his hair out of his face. "I'm sorry I dropped your garden salad on the ground." I mutter as I began ringing my hands. Another nervous habit that's resurfaced yet again.

"Seriously, don't even worry about it." He chortles slightly. "Dropped salads are the least of our worries."

"That is a vast understatement."

Again the silence creeps its way back in. Neither of us knowing how to address the obvious issue sitting inside the kitchen. Currently devouring a slice of my aunt's homemade caramel apple pie.

"I know this is going to sound corny but I actually kind of know what you're going through." Sam says. His hands held together atop his bent knees as he gazes out into the open dark night. The house was built on only a few acres; yet, the trees with their thick coats of swaying moss offer a semblance of privacy. Enough to feel the disconnect from the suburbs of the inner city.

"So one day you suddenly discovered you had psychic abilities and your whole life went to shit?" I counter, highly doubting the likelihood of my being correct. Then I see it. Just for a second, like peeking through a cracked doorway.

My insides twisted with guilt as he turns to face me.

"Yea pretty much." He laments, his voice no where near as gruff as his brothers.

"You're telling the truth." It isn't a question. I know he's being honest with me. Even so he nods. "Damn...but you're not anymore are you?"

"Nope." He replies, turning his attention again to swaying trees in the distance. I don't pry any further. Whatever had happened it was clearly a sore subject.

Behind us the screen door again creaks open and a few seconds later I'm met with the warmth of my jacket being laid atop my shoulders. Turning around I find Dean now leaning against the wooden railing. The tequila I left inside now in his right hand.

"Can I get another belt of that?" I ask, pushing myself off the step. I stumble and have to grip onto the faded white post for support as the left side of my face collides with it. "Shit fire!" I hiss.

"Um I think maybe you've had enough." He replies, trying and failing to hide the laughter in his voice. As I continue to struggle with my balance I realize that he's right.

"The mark, can I see it?" I request. Fear surging through my veins as I push my cheek off the side of the wooden post. I'm sure I'll have a slight bruise tomorrow but I could care less. Every time I drink I wake up with at least three mysterious bruises. Not a word is said. He merely shrugs off one side of his jacket and rolls up his sleeve. The sight of it makes my stomach leap up into my chest and then quickly back down. The feeling of realizing you want to get off the roller coaster right as it starts.

Complete hopelessness.

"You have to get rid of it." I utter, tearing my eyes away from it and instead connecting with his. "And you've got to stop Cain." I add, carefully reaching forward and slowly unrolling his sleeve. Being extra diligent not to make any sort of physical contact. Afraid that I might somehow see something dreadful yet again.

"We're way a head of you sweetheart." Dean remarks, grinning confidently before taking a swig. It's so painfully transparent. Such an obvious attempt to cover up the very real truth that Cain is in the wind. Everyday slipping further and further from the weak grasp the two brothers had convinced themselves they had on the situation. Sliding his arm back into his jacket as Sam stands and walks to over to us. It affords Dean a reason to keep his eyes adverted from mine. The fact that I can simply read his thoughts clearly making him more than just a little bit uncomfortable.

It isn't in my nature to pry yet I don't mind keeping that bit of personal knowledge from him for the time being. I can; however, feel aunt Myrtle listening in on the other side of the screen door. I want to agree with him. To encourage them that what I had seen wasn't all that bad. That this was all just an over reaction but I that would be lying. There is already enough of that going around. I'm not going to be just another hypocrite.

"No," I admit. Immediately his eyes meet mine. All the confidence drained from his face in an instant. "You're not."

The two brothers share yet another worried glance. Their faces down cast. The realization that a complete stranger could see through their lie was now thrust right in their faces. It doesn't take being a so called 'clairvoyant' to see the doubt in their eyes or hear it in their voices whenever the subject came up. It's an emotion so recognizable that it couldn't be mistaken for anything else. It's fear. Neither of them are willing to admit it but they were both scared.

At that moment I had a sort of epiphany.

Maybe I could do some good with this condition of mine. My aunt has always called it a gift. Personally, I consider it as more of a curse. A disability. Something that would always keep me right on the cusp of my hopes while holding me back just the same. Perhaps it was both. Two sides of the same coin. Just a matter of perspective.

"That's okay," I assure them. Crossing my arms and trying to sound brave. "Because I'm going to help you."

* * *

Sorry about the wait. As always thanks again for all the favs, follows, and reviews.

-Mary


	3. Chapter Two

{Chapter Two}

Have you ever confused a dream with reality? Or woken up from a deep sleep drenched in cold sweat? Struggling to find the line between the real and the imaginary. Maybe this is just in my head. Maybe I am simply dreaming or maybe I'm stuck in these woods for a reason. It eludes me as to how I found myself in this moment. The series of events that carried me here are no more clear than the path in front of me. An endless sea of trees. Their branches forming a heavy blanket dozens of feet overhead. Allowing only the slightest bit of moonlight to reach the damp forest bed below. Even with the dense foliage I can see the far distant light. Filtered through a crimson fog.

Blood on the moon. A sign of trouble not far behind.

Pushing myself off the cold ground isn't easy. It feels as if an invincible force is trying to hold me in place. Pushing back in resistance. Yet every muscle in my body screams at me to stand. To find my footing. To keep moving forward. Just as I've manage to pull myself up I hear something. Leaves rustle in the distance. Twigs crack under the weight of countless feet speeding towards me. Echoing on for miles. Who or what they belong to doesn't matter. There is only one thing I know for certain: I can't let them catch me.

I don't have to tell my legs to run. To carry me as far away as possible. What little survival instincts I posses have already kicked in. Before my mind can even register it I'm already fleeing through the woods. The ground is far from ideal for moving at this speed but I try to keep myself up right. A lone wolf howls in the darkness. Its sad cry sending a shiver down my spine. Distracting me just long enough for my foot catch itself on an raised root. Instantly the ground rushes up to meet me with all the momentum I've gained behind it. Bits of twigs and rocks dig into my forearms as they collide harshly with the unforgiving forest bed.

Without the sound of my own hurried footsteps it becomes eerily clear just how close they've gotten.

Digging my palms into the dirt I again force myself to my feet and begin running forward. Praying the woods will clear. That I might find something to defend myself with or a safe place to hide. Instead the trees seem to grow thicker. More appearing with each passing second. Snaking their way out of the ground to entangle me. Each one I pass seems to lash out against my bare arms and face. Leaving behind an assortment of thin lines atop my pale skin in their wake. I've never seen blood in the moonlight until now.

It looks almost black.

It has to be below freezing because I can see each panicked exhale as it escapes my lips. I guess I went numb to it at some point because the pain doesn't even register anymore. Getting the hell out of here is the only priority. It doesn't take being a clairvoyant to know this place is bad. Every inch of it feels wrong. A world inverted on itself. The saturation turned down. What once may have been a bustling source of life is instead bitterly barren. Where not even the strongest, the most resolved of souls, can hope to survive.

My heart thunders recklessly against my chest with fear. Thumping like a glass hammer. Destine to shatter at any second. Each footstep is more cumbersome than the last. Tripping over fallen branches. Everywhere I move is something else to snag myself on. Tears begin to litter the fabric of my clothing and I can feel the cool air against the newly exposed flesh. Even drawing breath here is a struggle. As if the oxygen is slowly draining from the atmosphere and all the while I can hear them.

They're closing in.

That inescapable sound of their coordinated steps spreading out to entrap me. Hungry predators circling their prey. Waiting for the opportune moment to strike; yet somehow, incredibly I see a faint light not far ahead. A clearing. A glimmer of hope in the distance. My feet may just as well be made of led at this point but I force myself to keep moving. I don't know what lies ahead of me but it has to be better than the alternative. Gasping I push myself through the tree line. For a moment I teeter on the edge, half certain that I will fall. My breath hitches in my throat as I force myself to fall backwards onto my rear end. Not a half foot beyond where I now sit is an immense and sudden drop. Easily over a hundred feet. A sheer plunge into the dark waters below. Behind me I can hear them begin to circle. When it comes to question as to what to do here it seems my options are dwindling down to two. The outcome of which are likely the same.

All my life I've been terrified of heights. I never go to amusement parks. I avoid high rise hotels. I rarely fly. Despite my fears for some reason I can't bring myself to give in. To simply wait for the monsters to step out of the shadows to devour me. Again I pick myself up and nervously glance over the edge. Trying to calculate how far I need to jump in order to avoid the shallows. Stepping back I allow myself a single glance over my shoulder. Through the darkness I can see a dozen sets of glowing eyes. All in varying shades of red staring back at me. Daring me to rob them of what they so relentlessly pursued.

With one last deep gasp of air I dash for the edge before pushing myself off it. Spinning on my toes at the last possible second. I'd much rather not see how quickly I'm approaching my end. The wind howls viciously around my ears while hair flies wildly in front of me. I thought it would only take a few seconds before I hit the surface yet it feels as if I've been falling for hours. The fear inside me dissipates bit by bit and I wait patiently for the inevitable. Comforted by the fact that I was at least going out on my own accord. Even if it means I have to leave some truly great people behind.

A choice is better than none. No matter the outcome.

In that exact moment. Just as I can feel the arms of the ocean open to embrace me in its grasp everything evaporates. Poof. Gone. It feels as if I'm clawing my way to the surface. Gasping desperately for air I try to sit up but am held down by a pair of strong arms.

"Hey hey hey, you're alright."

I recognize his voice instantly. No matter how horrid a nightmare may be I couldn't forget that.

"Dean?" I gasp. Blinking the haze out of my eyes the outline in front of me takes form. A few seconds pass before I can make him out entirely. His face is beaten. The beginnings of bruises line his cheekbones and jaw while his thick bottom lip host a painful red gash. Reaching up I delicately run my thumb down the side of his cheek. Not daring to truly reach out. My eyes widen with amazement as goosebumps begin to rise under his skin. "Are you real?"

"Real enough." He replies, grinning slightly while taking my hand in his and placing it back in my lap.

"Where are we?" I stammer. Still adjusting to forming full sentences aloud as clearly as they sound in my head. Honestly I sound almost drunk, or drugged for that matter. Gulping deeply I take a deep breath through my nose and out through my mouth. Hoping that by some miracle it will help steady my nerves.

"We're safe." He answers, trying to sound reassuring. My vision is poor at best but I recognize the Impala's wide rear window as the rain pounds hard against it. A bolt of lightning strikes no more than a mile away and pierces through my fluttering eye lids. Illuminating my surroundings yet little of it registers. The pain shooting through my brain on the other hand comes through loud and clear. It's becoming so intense for a brief moment I'm almost certain my stomach is going to turn over. Reaching forward I cover my face with my hands and let out a pathetic groan. Knowing Dean would never forgive me if I threw up in his car.

"How did I get here?" I ask, peaking through my fingers and not expecting the stunned look I receive in return. Dean's tired eyes narrow for only an instant before dashing towards the front seat. I have no idea what the hell that's all about but it's enough to make me worry.

"You don't remember?" The tone of surprise in his voice doesn't help either. Knots begin to form in my stomach as I search my mind for the last bit of reality I can recall.

"I'm trying but it's all fuzz." Sighing in frustration a cold realization falls over me. I have no idea what happened to the others "Wait, what about Sam and Cas?"

"Still kicking." Sam chuckles lightly from the front seat.

"Cas?" I continue. Slightly embarrassed by the worry in my voice but I need to hear him to know for sure.

"I too am still alive." He replies, monotone as ever.

"See?" Dean grins through a grimace of pain. "We're alright. That's all that matters."

Granted he makes a very good point; even so, I have to remember what happened or I'm likely to go even crazier.

"God my head fuckin kills" I mumble, reaching back to rub the incredibly sore area at the base of my skull. Quickly Dean reaches out and grabs a hold of my wrist.

"Careful there." He says, placing my hand back in my lap. Spreading his out atop mine to keep it in place.

"Dean, what happened?" I press, my eyes remaining firmly on the eldest Winchester. Waiting for him to glance back my way. Hoping that the truth behind his eyes wont break me.

"What do you remember?" He asks, our eyes finally meeting. This close I can almost feel the guilt and self loathing twisting inside his chest. Reaching down he gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Leaving behind a false sense of safety that does little to comfort either of us as I try to recall the last thing I can remember.

Home

It isn't always a place. A set of walls and a roof. Sometimes home is a person. For me that person is my aunt Myrtle.

"Like hell you are!" Myrtle yells, dashing out from her hiding place and onto the porch.

She had been snooping during my entire conversation with the brothers on that first night. That was six days ago yet my mind replays the memory as if it were occurring in real time. A movie projected in my own mind.

Myrtle's wild hair is a perfect embodiment of the storm brewing inside her as she hurries to where the three of us stand. She isn't just irritated. She's down right pissed. I've seen her angry before over packages arriving damaged or the cable going out but this is something else entirely. Frustration radiates from her like a nuclear meltdown as she plants her feet firmly in front of me.

"You're staying here!"

"Damn straight." Dean agrees instantly. Removing his hands from the pockets of his jackets to push himself off the porch railing.

The conversation that ensues is lit to say the least. Both Myrtle and Dean remain firmly against the idea of my riding along in some vain attempt to help a situation I couldn't possibly hope to understand. A point that serves only to piss me off. Another major factor in their defense is that I have yet to completely grasp the full extent of what it is I can do. Truthfully, I'm still finding new bits and pieces in only the last hour; yet, before that I had adjusted to being a telapath surprisingly quickly. A counter argument they can't deny. Lastly, they insist the risks are simply too high. Cain isn't some run of the mill monster. This is old testament level evil they are going up against.

"This is my choice alright!" I insist frigidly. The anger inside me quickly reaching its bowling point.

"She's right." Sam interjects, leaving us all in a slight state of shock. At once Dean begins to glare at his brother. Infuriated that he has the audacity take the side of some chick over his. Truthfully, even I'm a tad bit caught by surprise when I suddenly find Sam on my side of things. His hands remain shoved deep in his pockets as he towers over all of us. Somehow managing to hold each of us in his gaze. Firm resolve in his voice as he speaks. "We're gonna need all the help we can get."

Another truth that can't be denied.

More heated words follow and it isn't long before aunt Myrtle begins to angrily cry. Tears escaping the corners of her eyes as her face turns a deep shade of crimson. I'm not sure how much more I can take of this. I'm so close to throwing my hands up and giving in when Myrtle abruptly yells at all of us to shush. Her voice intimating like a mother who has just discovered a broken lamp her children tried to hide. Taking in a deep breath Myrtle closes her eyes tightly. Trying her best to calm herself. Silences such as these feel like they'll go on forever. Composing herself Myrtle insist that we go inside, have dinner, and figure this out like calm adults instead of screaming on the front lawn like a pack of redneck idiots.

"We all just need to calm down and put some food on our stomachs." She says strangely calm. She's right too. I've lost a fair amount of blood and neither Sam nor Dean had a chance to take even a bite of their meals back in the dinner. None of us is thinking clearly. We're all simply too caught up in the moment.

As Myrtle and I sit across from each other the next morning. Wrapped in our house coats. Once warm cups of coffee now turning cold in our hands it becomes obvious that my aunt genuinely doesn't want me to leave with the brothers. Even after coming to an understanding that it will only be for a short amount of time.

Granted, Sam and Dean are basically still strangers but Myrtle herself had known their father. Only the night before she had spoken kindly of him with a steady ring of truth in her words. She wasn't putting on airs about this John Winchester. She legitimately considered him a good man. If Sam and Dean were his sons, raised by him, than it's logical to assume that they too are good people. After all, they put their asses on the line on a daily basis fighting an evil they'll most likely never be thanked for defeating. As all of this races through my mind I become aware of Myrtle listening in on my thoughts. Poking around in my head for an explanation as to why I feel I must do this. An almost subconscious need to. Her creeping doesn't bother me. I'm desperate to have her understand me. If this is what it took than so be it.

"I'm not asking for your permission." I begin, gradually finding the courage to say what needs to be said. Looking at her I tell she didn't get much sleep either. In the dim light of morning I stumbled downstairs half awake around the same time she had. Tip toeing past the guest rooms where Sam and Dean slept. The two brothers wanted to rent a room in town but Myrtle had insisted that they stay here instead. This house has three guest rooms and only one was currently occupied. Plus, southern hospitality sort of grandfathers you into being overly polite and hospitable. To a certain degree at least.

The smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying fills the house within minutes. It has quickly became one of my favorite things about living here. Myrtle never goes much anywhere but she has her own garden and sends me to the store on a fairly regular basis. The kitchen remains stocked and every morning she cooks a delicious breakfast.

"I'm telling you this because I love you." I add, having allowed the waters to still. Her gaze finds me instantly. Snapping up from where she sat staring at the palms of her hands. "We love each other and I am so thankful for that but what I need now is a choice. All my life others have made them for me. I never really had a say in any of it. I've never really made any choices of my own."

Myrtle's blues eyes begin to brim with tears. Her bottom lip struggles to keep from quivering.

"This is though, this is my choice. How I approach this is all on me." Again she says nothing in return but slowly she begins to nod. At least I'm getting somewhere. Leaning back in my seat I have to pinch the bridge of my nose to keep the images from flooding back in. Every time the subject is brought up it's as if I'm looking through a view finder. Pull the slide and the photo changes from one hideous scene to the next and I have absolutely no control over it. "After what I saw...I can't do nothing. I can't just sit around marking time until the next disaster comes along. I'm sorry, I have to do this. "

She doesn't reply but she doesn't have to. I can read it in her body language. I can hear it in her thoughts. The first bits of sunlight peak over the treeline that circles the property. It's pale light shinning through the dozens of spotless windows. Turning everything in its path a pale shade of lavender.

"Plus" I stammer, seeing her on the verge of tears like this always rips me apart. This time was no exception. A thousand knots tighten inside my stomach. "I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

The moment our eyes reconnect I know I've convinced her. Not enough to agree with me taking a leave of absence from work to temporarily take up hunting. That's asking way too much of my already paranoid aunt; all the same, it's enough that she sighs and holds my gaze.

"I know." Is all she says before quickly gulping down the last of her coffee. Dumping the empty mug in the sink she hurries out of the room.

I don't see her again until shortly before it's time to leave. She breezes into my bedroom without me noticing. Something only she seems capable of. In her hands she carries a medium sized wooden box. The weight of it propped partially against her hip.

"If you're going huntin'." She groans, sitting the box down on the bed beside the last of my things I need to pack. The box springs screech loudly from the added weight. "Then you best come prepared." Myrtle motions for me to open it while taking a seat on the corner of my bed. The box itself is beautiful, a deep dark oak with a series of carvings in a language I don't recognize. Symbols I've never laid eyes on before. After a moments hesitation I pull the top open. Unable to hide my surprise as I gaze inside. In it lies two shelves. On one sits an assortment of items. A slender blade made out of silver. A flask of holy water. Most surprisingly is the small spring loaded pistol that can be easily concealed inside one's sleeve. As she gently passes it over to me I can't help but let my curiosity get the better of me.

"Who gave you all of this?" I ask, still gently digging through the other items I hadn't noticed. Reaching in I pull forth a long silver necklace with an strange sort of pentagram hanging from it.

"I would put that on if I were you." Myrtle gestures, standing up to help latch it around my neck. The silver chills my skin as I tuck it under my shirt. Sending a quick shiver down my spine. I figure aunt Myrtle is just going to ignore my question entirely when she finally speaks up. Her lips not far from my ears considering the height difference between the two of us "And that's a story for another day."

The tone in her voice alone is enough to keep me from digging further. Coupled with the fact that she had blocked me out of her mind it's obvious she meant what she said.

I know better than to pry.

"I love you." I whisper lightly into her tuft of wild red curls as we hug on the porch some thirty minutes later. Even though I'll be back in a week it feels odd leaving her. Leaving home yet again. The four of us having finally came to the understanding that if within a week I wasn't able to help the brothers handle Cain than I was to return home. No questions asked. No protest.

My services rendered unsatisfactory.

"I love you too my sweet Penny." She replies, standing on the tips of her toes to press her cool lips to the side of my cheek. Leaving a light red set of lips marked against my fair skin. "One, two, three." She counts aloud and then her grasp on me is gone and all I can see through the tears blurring my eyes is her hurrying up the steps into the house. Two of the many stray cats who live on the property scurrying inside ahead of her.

As we ride out of town towards a lead in Texas I try to comfort myself with the thought that this will only be temporary. That within a week I'll be returning to my semi ordinary life.

I was so wrong.

It doesn't take a week. It hardly takes three days to track Cain down. The guy isn't exactly worried about leaving a trail. According to one of the brother's sources Cain has been very busy. Everything the voice on the other end of Dean's phone says has the sickening effect of backing up what I've already told them. Cain is killing again, on a massive scale. We leave the seedy motel the two chose to dump me at while they were off posing as fake agents and gathering intel shortly after. Packing up again we head instead towards Kansas. Apparently they have a sort of safe house there and it will afford us all some time to figure out just what needs to be done to handle this issue.

It is far beyond the point of being ignored.

It's blown up in their faces and mine as well. Like a pressure cooker bomb going off. Hurling its shrapnel in every direction. I had the poor luck of simply standing too close. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately near the chosen targets. Now, well I'm committed. Never in my life have I felt such a sense of direction, and if it just so happens to lead me to disaster then so be it.

Even if I can't end this terrible cycle set into motion, maybe I can at least dent it.

As the days pass the two brothers gradually begin to grow on me. They aren't exactly social butterflies but they didn't feel like complete strangers anymore. I know their lunch orders. Their parents names. Their birthdays. When you're cramped in a small space for as dense an amount of time as the three of us have been certain questions inevitably come up.

Trying to stay out of their thoughts wasn't as easy. Though each Sam and Dean could go hours without saying a word their minds never shut up. Constantly worrying. Seconding guessing themselves. Imagining every scenario possible in which things went wrong. All that, and now me sitting silently in their back seat. Trying to focus on the fields that stretch out beside us for miles.

Sam is mostly concerned with rather or not he should have agreed to let me help them. Never the less, he can't lie to himself. Stumbling upon someone such as myself at a time like this has to be more than just luck. The desperation inside him is almost palpable. Anything that might help save his brother is worth taking a shot on. Even if that something is a complete stranger.

Dean on the other hand has a noticeably different view. More than anything he's just angry. Angry at his brother for allowing me to drag myself into this. Into their crazy, fucked up work. Mad at himself for not seeing it coming. Just pissed off at the entire situations as a whole. To top it all off now he has another liability tossed into the mix.

Me.

Occasionally I'll catch the eldest Winchester peeking at me through the rear view mirror. As if checking to see if I'm still there or if he has just imagined me. Each time our eyes meet he quickly turns his attention back to the road. Clearing his throat as the car accelerates beneath us. We play this back and fourth game all the way to the geographical center of the 48 states. A small town named Lebanon. It's nearly four in the morning when I glance down to my phone. The sky is still pitch back and there is so much cloud cover I can't see much of anything. Already half asleep in the back seat. Curled under my jacket as I wait for a more comfortable place to crash.

"We're here." Dean shakes me as he speaks. Leaning over the front seat to reach me. "Wake up buttercup."

Rubbing my eyes I step out of the car. The gasp that escapes my lips is entirely unavoidable. A dozen other vehicles surround me. Older style cars from the fifties and forties along with a pair of motor cycles. All in what seems perfect condition.

"The hell?" I mumble as Sam passes me my bag and leads me out of the large garage. With his long strides he isn't all that easy to keep up with. By the time we reach what looks like an elaborate library I'm at a loss for words and mildly out of breath.

Whatever I had expected, this wasn't it.

"Do y'all live in some type of Sherlock Holmes Batcave?" I ask, trailing my hand across one of the smooth table tops. Taking in the rows and rows of books and the collection of items and weapons that fill the room. Any minute I expect a kindly old butler in a well kept suit, which he undoubtedly has three identical pairs of, to round the corner and escort me to my room.

"A weirdly accurate analogy." Dean chuckles, stepping forward and tacking my bag from me. A gesture I wasn't expecting. "If you're gonna be here for a minute might as well find you a place to crash. Follow me."

Guess that's a no on the butler.

Though he had seemed cheerful at first Dean doesn't say much of anything else to me as I follow him out the library and down a separate hall from the one we had came in through. Perhaps the happiness of being home had worn off once he remembered why I was also there. He refers to this place as 'The Bunker' and I get the sense that it was built sometime during or not long after the second war. I recognized the almost Art Deco style of it and even the tiled hallways are something to be admired.

When we finally reach our destination Dean drops my bag lightly to the floor and flicks on the light. The room isn't terribly small, though it looks as though it hadn't been occupied in awhile. A good dusting wouldn't hurt either and I am definitely going to shake out the bed's comforter before collapsing atop it. Even so, I'm surprised with the over all quality. I had been expecting more of a cot and maybe a chair to use as a nightstand if I was lucky. This; however, exceeds my expectations. There is even a dresser and a small sink too.

"Bathrooms down the hall, cant miss it. Gotta sign on the door." He says, pointing in the correct direction while making his way towards the open doorway. "Try to get some rest."

"Wait!" I exclaim, hurrying across the room on nervous legs to stand in front of him. An awkward silence lingers around us as I struggle to find the words I'm looking for. He doesn't know it but I've heard enough of his thoughts, seen enough of his memories playback like a horror film in his mind, to know just how frightened he truly is. He knew the mark was more than capable of turning him into something he wouldn't recognize. Going up against Cain was only going to make it worse. "I know I'm pretty much a stranger to you."

Dean nods in agreement. Looking to the ceiling as he sticks his bottom lip out slightly. He had seen that coming. It was obvious that he doesn't want me involved in this. Both he and Sam were older than me and hardened by life. Hunting does that to you. A fact I suspect was what kept my aunt so thoroughly against my taking a shot at it.

Standing there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other I can feel the overwhelming sense of doubt growing inside him. It is so strong. So endless. Normally I can't afford to be empathetic. If I did I would never have a single concern of my own. Maintaining a safe distance is almost always the best choice; yet, here I stand wanting so desperately to comfort him. To wrap my arms around him and hold tight. To tell him that he is going to come out of this. Mustering up the courage I squeeze my hands tight to keep from ringing them as I look him in the eye.

"But I'm with you on this." I finish.

Now that, he hadn't seen coming. Seconds tick away like hours as we stand in silence. Dean is especially gifted at hiding his feelings. His expression remains aloof as he looks down at me yet I knew it had caught him off guard.

Thoughts are always clearest when coupled along side a strong emotion.

"Thanks." He mutters, stepping forward his feet halt briefly. Turning to me I see a sentence forming in his mind, just waiting on the tip of his tongue; yet, he says nothing. Quickly turning on his heel he is out of the door in an instant. The door still half open behind him. I could easily go after him but I had nothing more to say. Trying to help is the only real priority here. I need to remember that this isn't some friendly gathering. Shit was stirring up. I don't like standing idly by while another person suffers but what other aid could I possibly hope to provide? This is Dean we're talking about. He isn't just going to pour his problems at my feet. He was too humble and a bit too prideful to do such a thing. Least of all to a stranger. No his problems are best left constantly simmering under the surface.

Because that always works out so well.

I don't even bother closing the door. The lights stay on. Kicking off my shoes I grab the corners of the large comforter and shake out the dust before collapsing atop it. The last week had been spent almost entirely in a mix of either sleazy motels or the backseat of a car. My sleep pattern was fucked to say the least. Curling atop the bed I snatch a small blanket that sat folded at the bottom of the bed. Now thoroughly tussled. Pulling it over my feet I allow my face to sink even further into the mattress. It smells old like my grandparents house but I could care less. Within a minute I'm gone.

I can hear someone knocking in my sleep. Softly at first then a bit louder each time. Gradually followed by my name being called out close by. I have no way of knowing that its merely reality pouring over into my dreams. It isn't until whoever knocking reaches out and touches me, grabbing the exposed skin of my arm and shaking me gently, that it comes to an abrupt end. Replaced by something else entirely.

Without warning I'm quietly hurrying down the hallways of the Bunker, blade in hand. Fear tight in my chest. Pull the slide and now I'm in another room. A large symbol painted on the floor and in the middle of it sits a man. Hands and feet shackled to a chair. Head hung low. I can hear myself calling out in Sam's voice _'Dean'._ Slowly the bound man lifts his head and locks eyes. It may look like him, but this isn't the Dean I know. Everything about him just feels wrong. From the sly dark grin on his face to his uncharacteristic complete and utter lack of empathy. It radiates off him like a cancer. Poisoning the air. Then he blinks and whatever remaining grip I have on myself is gone.

His eyes are cold and black as night.

It must have occurred to Sam what he had done. Perhaps the twinge of pain on my face gave me away.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" He almost shouts, quickly letting go of his hold on my arm and pulling away. "I didn't even think-"

"Its okay." I cut him off, trying to hide the discomfort in my voice as I push myself off the bed. Wobbling slightly as I stand while catching a quick glance of myself in the mirror. My hair is messier on one side and the small amount of make up I wore has begun too fade. I try patting my hair down but it proves pointless. Once my head finally ceases its spinning I turn my attention to Sam. "So, whats up?"

It's blatantly clear that if he had once had abilities other than those awarded to all humans, they had long ago dissipated. Now, he's just a very tall man who also happens to hunt monsters. Standing awkwardly with a look of guilt on his face.

"I'm about to run out for dinner, just wondering what you wanted?" He grins apologetically. Knowing that what had just happened wasn't exactly a pleasant experience for me. After a bit of yawning we agree on my order and I try to force him to let me pay for it. I practically shove the money into his bear sized hands but he just sits it back down on the dresser.

"I hate to ask but would you mind showing me where the showers are and perhaps a washer that wont make my clothes smell like a motel that hasn't been renovated since the 80's?"

Chuckling he waits for me to grab my things. Leading the way to the laundry room Sam points around the corner towards the locker room where the showers are located. Clean towels are kept in the right hamper. Left for hot water and right for cold. After a quick thank you Sam disappears down the hallway that leads to what I guess you would call 'the war room'. It definitely has that _Doctor Strange Love_ Cold War vibe to it.

For such an outdated looking locker room the showers in the Bunker are amazing. The water pressure alone seems to work out every ache in my back and neck from sleeping in the impala. It even manages to rinse out all the conditioner from my hair on the first go. A feat not easily accomplished. My hair isn't particularly long but what I lack in length I make up for in thickness. It sounds dirty but it's honestly the best way to get my point across. If there was one thing I was going to miss about this place, this would be it.

Half an hour later and I'm still towel drying my hair as I round the corner into the library. This place is like a friggin maze but I still managed to start a load of clothes on to wash and tossed on enough concealer and eye makeup not to look frightening. For the first time in days I'm actually feeling moderately good.

Productive at the least.

Myrtle and I have been keeping in touch through texts since her actual service is terrible. When I had moved in I began paying for the internet and phone bill. It took awhile but once aunt Myrtle had gotten the hang of texting she fell in love with it. She even types out little poems and thoughts and saved them to her notes. I had touched base with her shortly after getting out of the shower and something as simple as getting truly clean for the first time in days made me feel a dozen times better.

The patter of my feet tap lightly against the smooth marble floor as I make my way past the massive table that remains lit in the entrance hall. I could already hear both Sam and Dean in the library, conversing hastily.

"It seems to fit Cas's and Penny's story. I mean there's no way to tell the relation to Cain obviously but he's wiping out entire families, one after another." I can make out Sam's voice clearly. Everyone's carries in here. The ceilings are fairly high and the acoustics remarkably clear.

"So who's next?" Dean sighs, followed by the sound of a stack of books being dropped atop one of the tables. "Is he done with the Tollivers?"

"I think so."

Quickening my pace I hurry up the few steps and through the larger arch way. Eager to find out whatever new information had been dug up. Anything that might get us closer to ridding the world of someone who had been the cause of so much despair and death. Sliding into the room I nearly collide with what appears to be a tax accountant. All suit and tie topped off with a fancy trench coat. It is a completely inaccurate assumption. That much I knew within an instant. He is far from anything so simple.

"Wow." I mutter, slowly stepping closer. Trying to figure out what exactly I was within a few feet of. "You're not human."

"That is correct." The stranger answers in a gruff monotone voice.

"Let's just spare the formalities." Dean interjectes. "Cas this is Penelope, Penny this is Cas. He's an-"

"Angel of the lord." The man finishes instead and I can't help but scoff. This, this was too much.

"You have an Angel on retainer?" I chuckle a tad bit too sarcastically, but truth be told I'm really starting to feel out of the loop. I want to help but damn, this was one of those things I could have used a heads up for. I've almost lost my grip and began to manically laugh when suddenly Sam speaks up.

"Oh, come on damn it."

The car hits a pot hole or a rock in the road and in a blink I'm jolted back into my current reality. Head thumping roughly against the legs of whoever had begun stroking my hair. Replacing comfort with a new hot searing pain that shoots through the back of my neck. Thoroughly waking me up.

"Shit, sorry." Sam apologizes from the front seat as my eyes force back open. Unaware that I had drifted off. The dim moon shining through the windows is so strong that it again takes me awhile to adjust. Slowly shapes began to take form and I can just barely make out the face of whose lap I had been dozing in.

"Dean." I mutter weakly. Siting here like this with my head in his lap. One arm beneath my neck while the other supports my head gently. Now holding it still so that no other bumps or sudden tapping of the breaks will shake me around. A sense of deja vu so strong and clear washes over me that as I reach out and delicately wipe a bit of the dried blood from his face no headache can keep me from seeing the thought currently consuming his mind.

 _He let it happen again._

No amount of physical pain can suppress the overwhelming sense of guilt I can feel tearing at his insides.

He doesn't push my hand away and slowly the images in his mind began to take shape.

I can see him rushing towards me, lifting me off that dirty barn floor and propping me against his bent knee. I can almost taste the panic swelling in his chest as he shakes me slightly. Hoping that I'll open my eyes, groan, give any indication of consciousness but there is nothing. 'Penny.' He calls out, a bit louder each time till he his practically shouting my name but again, nothing. He's just about to scream it when something catches his eye. A bright bit of color creeping its way against my skin. A thin red line that begins to pour slowly from my nose.

This isn't like before, at the worst part was just how certain he was. In his head he could still see my body flying across the room like a rag doll. Still her the resounding crack as my skull collide with one of the thick wooden support beams. All the while the same thought plays over and over in his mind.

 _'This is my fault'_

The sound of him screaming my name with such anguish and desperation causes me to drop my hand. Severing the connection as quickly as possible. Like touching a hot stove on accident. One always pulls away. I wanted answers, I wanted to remember but not this.

The realization of what has happened. Of what I had just seen in his thoughts, in his memories, grows on me as quickly as it takes your hands to warm the cold side of the pillow. Holding his gaze I have to ask, after everything else I had seen I have to be sure.

"Did I die?"

* * *

So so incredibly sorry for the insane break in updates! I promise I'll make it up. Again, just went back and did some re editing to fill in some plot holes and set ups for further down the line. As always thank you all so much for the support with reviews/ratings/follows. Y'all are awesome.

-Mary


	4. Chapter Three

{Chapter Three}

"Dean?" I call out his name again, tugging at his sleeve from where I lay with my head in his lap. Using all of my strength to do so while the rest of my body lies sprawled out along the Impala's wide back seat. It's dark but from this close I can still make out just how beaten the eldest Winchester looks. Not just in the physical sense, he seems nearly broken by whatever has happened. Also, completely unwilling to cooperate. "Answer me."

The muscles in his jaw flex and grow tense but he controls himself. Remaining silent as a ghost. Continuing my tugging has no effect whatsoever. Regardless of how hard I pull I can't get him to look me in the eye. Outside the rain begins to fall, fat drops against the windows, and I watch as Dean's eyes follow several as they travel down the glass before eventually disappearing entirely.

"Can we get some music?" He asks Sam instead, and slowly the sound of the radio faintly reaches the back seat. Hesitant at first, Sam seems unsure of how far to turn up the volume. After catching a glance of his brother's face in the rear view mirror he quickly adjusts the knob. Leaving no space for communication as the music fills the car.

After that no one speaks.

It doesn't matter, not to me at least. I don't require a verbal confirmation from Dean to convince myself that what I had seen in his head was real. Reaching out I shove my hand under the fabric of his collar, chilling the warm flesh beneath, and grasping tightly. Before he even realizes what is happening it's too late. Grabbing my wrist to yank me away only strengths the pull between the doors in our minds before his inevitably bursts open. Now I can see it. So clearly, as if I'm watching it all over again through his eyes.

In that moment I can feel every thing that every part of him felt.

The worry growing inside him as my body remains unnaturally still in his strong yet sore arms. My eyes closed as if I were simply sleeping. The dust from the barn floor sticks to my jacket in a thin layer. His bloody fingers rush to my throat, leaving a crimson smear against my pale skin while in their wake. Pressing down hard he searches desperately for a pulse. Nothing. Pushing his ear down hard to my chest he again searches for that faint thump thumping that may offer some sense of hope but again there is only silence. Not even the slightest rising of my chest beneath the fabric of my dark blouse.

The despair rising up like bile in his throat as he pulls back quickly, searching my face for any sign of consciousness. Only to find yet another stream of crimson blood pouring from my nose, now the opposite side as well. The reality of the situation is beginning to sink in. This time he doesn't call my name, he screams it. Deep inside I can feel the last bit of hope he has tucked away inside himself fade.

This was why he had told me, told all of us to hang back. He knew just what Cain was capable of. How far he would go to break him. It didn't matter that I hadn't been on his list. He had came for me just as easily as if I had. Smiting me all the same.

" _Not again..."_

 _At that moment_ Dean finally manages to shove my hand away. I don't fight him. I had seen enough. The minor details will fill themselves in eventually but I know what I had saw. Judging by the look in his eyes, so did he.

I had died.

As to how I've ended up alive again and in the back seat with my head in said Winchester's lap remains uncertain. Searching inside my mind I tried to pick up where my last memory had left off.

Bit by bit I start putting the pieces back together. Memories fall into place. The library in the Bunker. Dean and I in the middle of my first angelic introduction when Sam had tossed yet another curve ball our way. Turns out this Tolliver guy who Cain had snatched from inside a locked prison cell and murdered shortly after, has a kid.

"But, I mean come on." Sam insists from where he sat at one of the library's many tables. Lap top open in front of him. "It's a kid."

It's clear he doe't understand the gravity of the situation. Not entirely at least. Sam has never met Cain, and technically neither have I; even so, after what had happened when I had first touched Dean by accident in the dinner. Brushing directly over the Mark. It was like reading someone's diary cover to cover a dozen times before meeting them in person. From what I had seen, the things I had felt, it's impossible for me to try and pretend like I can't feel the weight of it bearing down on me.

That day it had started and still it hasn't stopped. It's eerily distinct. The way in which Cain is killing has no sense of mercy. Not a shed of humanity. He doesn't see sex, age, or even innocence. To him it was all about wiping the slate clean. Entirely, even if that meant a lot of innocent people had to die. To Cain, it's worth it. No survivors, no liability.

 _'One in ten.'_

A statistic that causes my stomach to leap into my throat. Coupled with the reassurance that if anyone was capable of such a horrendous undertaking it would be him.

"You don't really think Cain...`"

"He's done worse." I cut in, causing a sea of goosebumps to rise atop my skin. For the first time allowing myself to truly acknowledge just what I had seen. All those people, entire families, each of their faces seared forever into my brain. Like 9/11 or two girls one cup, some things can't be unseen. Beside me Castiel sighs and straightens up from where he stood with his hands leaning against the table. Now taking the time to give me a curious looking once over. It's obvious he isn't entirely certain as to how I've been thrown into the equation. A story growing longer and more worrisome with each passing day.

"There were old men in those graves, Sam, women-" Dean states, setting down another stack of books on the nearest table with a light thump. Simultaneously drawing all our attention back to him.

"Children" I admit, running my hands through my now dry hair and separating the tangled curls. Glad that no one is looking my way and growing increasingly more nervous of what is to come. My entire body begins to tingle and my chest tightens in the way it always did when a storms about to hit.

"You heard Cas and Penny." Dean says. "It's a fire sale. Everyone must go." Spreading his hands out knowingly Dean shrugs before turning on his heal. Boots thumping against the dark hard wood floor as he heads toward the exit.

"Where you going?" Sam muses, causing his brother to turn back around. A look of befuddlement on his face as to why none of us were reacting the same as him.

"We know where Cain's going to be." Dean announces bluntly, waiting in silence for a reply. "The kids in danger."

Both Castiel and I hold our tongues. Knowing this isn't the place for either of us to be tossing in our opinions. For an angel this guy looks remarkably human. A bit cold around the edges maybe, but I live with a mind reading hermit for a roommate so I've gotten pretty well adjusted with personality's less than ordinary.

"Okay, so what, we track him down to Ohio, and then what?" Sam scoffs, leaving behind a weightily quiet. Remaining silent I say nothing. Going as far as to keep out of their minds as the seconds ticked away like hours. I don't dare look at either of them. More often than not most of what they were thinking I didn't want to know.

"Then I'll do what I have to do." Dean replies calmly. He is doing his best to seem unafraid but the emotions playing across his face betray him. "I'll kill Cain."

Just like that, he exits the library leaving the three of us all behind in a state of worried confusion before hurrying after him. Trailing behind Sam and Cas we find Dean in his room, busy getting packed. As I round the corner to his open doorway I catch a glimpse of him pulling a shot gun off the wall. One of many weapons he has hung up above and around his bed.

Easy access I suppose.

I've never been in Dean's room before and can't help but be taken back by just how homely it is. Obviously it isn't going to be on the cover of Home and Gardens but it actually seems a comfortable moderately normal bedroom. Not at all what I had expected. Leaning in the doorway I continue to hold my tongue as the brother's began to argue as they so often do. Dean admitting that when Cain had given him the mark he had warned him this day would come. That he would have to _'put him down'._ Sam insisting that doing so would be _'taking orders from a madman.'_

It was all very back and fourth.

"Dean's right." Cas finally interjects, instantly ceasing the two's bickering.

"Dean, wielding the Blade against Cain himself..." Sam emphasizes as I watch Dean tensely reach for the mark on his arm. "Win or lose, you may never come back from that fight.

The youngest Winchester's words ring loud and clear. The unsaid fear of what this fight might do to Dean crept inside us all.

Then came the images. The flickering, mostly out of focus shots. A young boy inside a large barn. A short man in a dark suit with a cunning smile. The man in black from before and Dean, bloody and on his knees atop a dusty floor.

Wincing I pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping to avoid yet another headache. It has becoming a common occurrence as of late. The occasional migraines following soon after seeing something my body isn't equip to handle. There's a reason humans are only suppose to use ten percent of their brain at a time. To put it bluntly, it gets pretty fucking exhausting having that much of your brain firing all day long. Not to mention the emotional factor at play.

Sure, I hadn't known Dean for very long and for the most part he was kind of a meat head but that doesn't mean I don't have a conscience. If I didn't I wouldn't be here in the first place. No, we aren't what I would typically refer to as friends. Some of the most basic things about him like his birthday or if he had any allergies, I have yet to find out. It doesn't matter if he is still mostly a stranger. I can't stomach the idea of standing ideally by while he runs off towards his own demise.

To him that's what this is, a suicide mission. One last clear headed decision before the mark inevitably takes over. It isn't clear if that meant death in the literal sense or something far worse but it's evident by the pessimistic waves radiating off him that he doesn't expect to come back from this.

"I know." Dean laments. His voice thick with a sense of foreboding.

"We need to leave soon." I finally speak up, desperate to change the subject and get us back on track.

"What's this 'we' stuff?" Dean asks rudely, momentarily ceasing his packing to straighten up and look directly at me. His entire mood having turned on a dime. "You're not going anywhere."

"Excuse me?" I hiss, surprised at how quickly and truly pissed off I sound.

"Oh, you're not coming with sweetheart." Dean replies sarcastically, returning to packing his things. As if that had put an end to it.

"So you just want me to sit here in the Bunker while you three go off to war?" I ask sarcastically. Moving further into his room than the others have. I'm not afraid to invade his personal space when he so blatantly deserved it.

"The deal was you help us track down Cain, and we've tracked down-" Dean begins but I'm not having it.

"Oh shove it!" I fume, cutting off his protest. "The deal was I had a week to help you handle Cain and by my count it's only day five. There is a world of difference between tracking Cain down to some kid's house in Ohio and actually putting an end to this. The way I see it, you're stuck with me for two more days."

The air in the room feels thin. Paired with the uneasy silence that has established itself between myself and Dean and it's as if I can hardly catch my breath. We haven't been around each other long but it is now obvious he is just as bad, if not more stubborn than myself. This isn't something that him and I can sit down and talk out. We aren't going to share our feelings peacefully over drinks and come to a common agreement. There isn't time that. With every breath the four of us take it feels as if the oxygen level is dropping. We had all been caught in this trap and slowly it's beginning to smother us.

Moving closer I step to where the eldest Winchester stood, pistol in hand. Busy checking the clip before sliding it into place. He won't look me in the eye but I can see his jaw tighten with every word I say. See his fingers start to white knuckle the pearl grip of his pistol as I continue on.

"You can ball your fists and complain all you want but I can help and I am going with." Reaching forward I grab the gun from his hand and quickly work the slide. Hearing the click as the first round slides into the chamber. Looking up I search his face for any expression that might allow me to understand what he is thinking without actually reading his thoughts. Standing here leaves hardly a foot of space between us. This close and I see every freckle, every line on Dean's face. Smell his cologne, and practically hear his heart beating, but none of that matters. I don't care if this is too close for comfort. He has driven me to this point and I get right in his hostile face. "Nobody makes my choices for me." I declare, looking Dean directly in those hazel eyes of his as I click the pistol's safety on and hand it back to him. "Nobody."

There is no more debating after that. Like an angry breeze I exit the room and hurry to the one I currently occupy. Tossing everything I could possibly need for my first hunt into one of my smaller bags. Stowing the silver blade in my boot instead and the spring loaded pistol safety inside my jacket pocket.

"We're heading out." Sam says some twenty minutes later, leaning into my room and knocking on the door though it already hangs open. Nodding I gather my things and follow him to the garage. Dean is waiting for us when we got there. Leaning against the newly washed Impala, car keys spinning in his hand. Sliding into the backseat next to an angel I prepare myself for what promises to be a very tense ride.

It does not disappoint. Hardly a word is said during the entire trek from Kansas to Ohio.

Arriving in some rural town a few hours later we manage to track down the kid that Cain is gunning for. Some twelve year old who lives on his grandparents farm along with his mother. The sun set a few hours ago and the air this far up north is much cooler and thinner than the dense humidity I'm accustomed to having spent the majority of my life in the south. With every exhale I can see our breaths as we wait nervously. Standing behind what looks to be some sort of shed with Dean and Sam I began rubbing my hands up and down the sleeves of my jacket. Hoping the friction might create a little heat and wishing I had invested in a better coat. A thought that makes me want to slap myself given the current circumstances.

"Could've stayed-" Dean begins.

"Shush!" I nudge his side to shut him up. Too cold to put up with his 'I told you so'.

"Kid here?" Dean asks Castiel as he approaches us. I hadn't heard him coming but that isn't exactly unexpected. I had come to the conclusion pretty quickly that I couldn't read the angels mind. It's like trying to load a computer using the wrong operating software. Where everyone else is mostly thoughts and images, he was just colors.

"He's nearby. Upstairs in the barn. Playing with a basketball."

"Cain will strike soon." Dean states. "Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow but soon." Casting a glance Sam's way he allows his eyes to linger. "And when he does..."

"Yea, I got it. You charge in with the Blade solo." Sam answers coldly. Hands as per usual shoved roughly into the pockets of his jacket. "And the kid? What we just watch and wait until Cain attacks? I thought this was a rescue mission."

Normally I wouldn't be on board with this. Using an innocent kid as a pawn is morally wrong on so many levels. Even so, as I search my mind for any other possible solution to the problem I find none. It has already been five days and I'm running out of time.

"I don't like this either." I mutter, giving up on warming myself and letting my hands fall to my side. "But we wont get another shot at this."

"She's right." Dean agrees, nodding his head towards where I stand beside him. It feels odd actually agreeing with him. Even if it is about something as awful as this.

"Using a twelve year old as bait." Sam scoffs. "I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"Neither can I." Replies a strange new voice. Thick with what sounded like a British accent as he steps out of the shadows and into view of the clear moonlit night. I recognize him instantly. The man from my vision earlier. "Hello darling." He grins at me. "Glad to see you boys finally decided to add a blonde into the mix. Really balances you out."

"Stow it Crowley." Dean practically growls. "What you suddenly grow a conscience? Too good to put a minor in danger."

"I don't give a damn about the kid." He responds crassly. "Her on the other hand." He points at me, again with that devilish grin.

He is sharply dressed, I can't deny that. His suit perfectly tailored. The more he speaks the more certain I am of his accent. Definitely British. Above all that, I can't hear him. His thoughts that is. This time isn't like Castiel though where it was a kaleidoscope of changing colors. This is like staring into the darkness. Dean moves to stand in front of me, blocking me partially from this new stranger's view. "Calm down boy, I'm not playing at your new chew toy. I'm here to talk about the risk to us."

"There is no us." Dean asserts icily. "You're here for one reason. That's to hand me the Blade."

"Yea about that." From there the suit goes on to explain how he won't be handing over the blade until Cain is sewn up. Just to be safe. If Dean was ticked off before he is thoroughly pissed now while Sam merely shrugged his shoulders in agreement. "Now, back to this plan of yours."

As the newest addition to our rag tag team carefully lays out his plan it becomes obvious I won't be having any part in it. As Sam, Castiel and this new stranger lead Cain into a carefully planned out mouse trap I'm to only follow Dean and wait. With our backs pressed against firmly against the shed we wait for the opportune moment to make a move for the barn. Castiel had told us of a side door we can sneak in from and a safe spot to wait out the coming storm. However long it takes.

"No matter what." Turning to me Dean speaks in a tone so low and serious that I'm again reminded of the scale of the situation I've put myself in. "You stay right on my heels."

Nodding I keep my eyes on the long patch of open field we have to cross. Dew had already began to form on the grass as the temperature continues to drop. A part of me wonders if my boots will make it that far without sliding out from under me, but before I can debate on the likelihood much longer Dean has pinched the sleeve of my jacket and given it a firm tug. Before I know it, we've reached the barn and again throw ourselves out of view before slowly creeping inside.

"What do we do now?" I ask, propping myself against an old work bench and crossing my feet over each other.

"Kill time." He mumbles, clearly still irritated that I've dragged myself along and of all the people to have been dumped on, it just had to be him. Moving to the opposite side of the room he stands with his arms crossed, eyes peering through the cracks in the wall.

"Who is the little guy in the suit?" I ask nearly and hour later.

"Ha" Dean chuckles slightly. "That's Crowley."

"He's not human either is he?" I question further. Desperate to start some sort of dialogue that might help pass the time. Ease this terrible sense of foreboding that clings to us like wet clothing.

"Nope. He's a Demon." Dean replies.

"I can't read him."

"Then consider yourself lucky." He emphasizes, tuning to look at me for the first time since the two of us had walked in. "You do not want to know whats going on in his head."

"Do you ever get use to it?" I go on, nervously ringing my hands. Looking at him for any kind of reassurance.

"Use to what?" Dean asks stoically. His eyes returning to to the large room ahead where the young boy still dribbles away. Killing time himself.

"All of this, the angels, demons, monsters..."

"Quicker than you'd imagine. Now keep your voice down."

His reply came so promptly that I find myself again sitting silently while trying to block out his thoughts. An act more easily said than done. As much as I would like to just chock it up to adjusting to being a clairvoyant I know it to be a lie.

Sam, I can block out nearly seventy percent of the time. Which isn't bad considering how many hours the two of us had spent in the car together the last few days. I'm still acclimating to his thought signature, beginning to recognize it much easier than before which in turn makes keeping out of his mind that much effortless as well. Dean though...

Dean is a whole different ball park. No matter how hard I work at blocking out his thoughts I can never entirely rid myself of them. They are like shadows, following close behind me all the time. Whispers that I can just barely make out. Always leaving behind the feeling of someone murmuring about you whenever you walk out of the room, but it is twenty four seven constant.

Inescapable.

Behind us the door creaks open and instantly Dean has his gun drawn, moving across the room and planting himself in front of me.

"Wow, just me." Sam says as he steps inside, hands drawn. A moment of silence passes and I can practically taste the pressure pushing down on all of us. Stowing his pistol Dean moves away from me and back towards the thick crack in the wall where he can see the boy playing basketball through. Quietly propping the door open should we need to make a speedy exit Sam slowly makes his way into the middle of the room. "So...If this works and we capture Cain then what?"

Shutting my eyes tight I focus hard on detaching myself from the fear of the inevitable. I'm a psychic, a clairvoyant after all. If I focus hard enough I could see exactly how this was all going to play out but truth be told I'm not sure if I want to. Rather or not I could handle what I might see.

Walking back towards his brother Dean takes a moment to glance around the room we're in. Inhaling deeply he turns his attention quietly to Sam. Strain heavy on his face. It's obvious just by their body language how stressed they both are. How much this is effecting them. They are brothers after all, and this could be one of the last conversations they have. A thought that brought my own brothers to mind, off living their happy lives as bachelors. I haven't seen them since last Christmas. They had both moved out by the time my parents called it quits, literally two days after my graduation.

They wanted to wait until I was out of high school. As if that made it so much easier to deal with.

My brothers Ethan and Joel never had much in common with myself. They were far more athletic and academically driven than I was. Me, well I loved to read novels under my desk while I should have been taking notes and came to school stoned on a fairly regular basis. It wasn't like I was playing any sports to get drug tested for. Not to mention, living at home with two shinning examples of the young American dream, an emotionally absentee father, and a wineo for a mother damn near required it.

Regardless, I still love my brothers deeply. They, by some miracle, hadn't turned out like either my father or my mother. They're kind, and good people. Each of them treats me with respect, and usually takes me out to fancy restaurants whenever they came in town. It doesn't matter that they had pulled my hair constantly as children and terrorized my Barbie collection. They are my family and I love them. Just as I love Myrtle.

Only difference being is that my parents told my brother's I joined the peace corp instead of the fact that they had all but kicked me out of their lives because if there is one thing my parents still shared in common was an uncanny ability to lie. They did it often and they did it very well. Something, I posed a very big threat to.

"I'm gonna get some fresh air real quick." I mutter mostly to myself before sliding out the barn door Sam had left open. Leaving the two to themselves. All this thinking about family has quickly reminded me that I wasn't part of theirs. Not that family strictly means blood relatives, but to them I was still relatively a stranger. Assuming everything somehow miraculously goes to plan, forty eight hours from now and I will be just another acquaintance. Fading into the background of their lives.

At least I will be back home with Myrtle, and it's not like Cain has any allies. If word were to get around that I had assisted in the smallest way possible in his demise I doubt anyone would come complaining. Stepping out into the night and walking at least thirty feet from the barn does me some good. It's just far enough away that I can stand for a moment in silence. A sensation I've become so unaccustomed to. God how I had missed it.

I know I can't stay out here for long. It isn't safe. One of the property owners might see me or worse. In spite of the risks I needed the separation desperately. To feel the cool breeze brushing back my hair and chilling the bits of skin exposed from the few tears in my jeans but then something happens. Everything seems to stop abruptly. Almost unnaturally. In the surrounding woods I can hear nothing, not the scurrying of small wild animals or the cracks of branches. Complete silence. It as if a darkness has descended and every living creature has crawled back into their holes.

Turning around I dash back to the barn. Sliding through the door on wet soles. Nearly knocking myself over in the process.

"He's here."

"Go, go, go." Dean insists, giving Sam a nudge toward the door. In the blink of an eye the younger Winchester is gone. Not a second later and Dean is pulling me by my wrist, careful not to touch my flesh as he hurries me out the door and around the side of the barn. "Remember what I said?"

"Right on your heels, got it." I reply, pushing myself against the cool wooden siding of the barn. Trying to stay in the shadows. On the opposite side of the building I can hear a loud crash. Closing my eyes tightly I try to hear, to make out who or what it is but I can't pick up on anything. Looking at Dean nervously I shake my head, hoping he understands that I'm just as in the dark as he is. Slowly we tip toe our way around to the front of the barn and are met by a tremendously loud banging that begins and ends just as suddenly.

Holding my breath I switch hands and instead hold onto Dean's arm tightly. Scared that at any moment Cain will appear and cut us down. Sharing a worried glance Dean pulls me further along the outside of the barn before slipping in through another side door. The moment I step inside I think I'm going to be sick. One of the few upsides to being a clairvoyant is that it makes people easier to spot. Kind people, criminals, cheats, they all sort of emit their own signal. Evil doers are the easiest to pick out and I have met a few in my time but nothing like this. This sort of darkness seeps into every inch of our surroundings, digs its nails deep into my shoulder, and crawls on. Beneath me I can feel my knees begin to buckle but if there was ever a time to hide weakness this is one of them.

In front of Dean and I one of the two large barn doors slides open. Out walks Sam and Crowley and for the first time I see him. Cain. Hardly a quick glimpse over Dean's shoulder before the door closes again. It isn't much but it's enough to send a thousand awful thoughts and images running through my head. I can't help but press my hands hard over my eyes and push down. Praying that by some miracle I could force them out of my mind.

"It worked?" Cas asks, stumbling into the barn. Rubbing his head and looking moderately hurt.

"You alright?" I ask instantly, stepping forward and steadying him by his shoulders.

"I'm fine." He nods, dropping his hand and straightening his back. "Thank you."

"My turn." Dean announces behind us, drawing all of our attention.

"Dean, look we want to help." Sam insists but is quickly cut off by his brother.

"No, not with you in the ring, it just be a liability."

"I wouldn't." I add, not expecting the bemused faces I receive in return. "Cain doesn't know who I am. I wouldn't be a liability to you."

"What?" Dean asks, confusion clear in both his voice and thoughts.

"I'm just a stranger to you." I clarify. "I won't be a liability."

That's when I realize how wrong I was. Looking between Dean and Sam it's becoming evident by the looks on their faces that I'm not merely a stranger. A revelation I hadn't been expecting. None the less, I return my focus to Dean. Hoping he will contradict such a thought by taking me up on my offer. It would make things so much easier.

"As long as you're around you're always going to be a liability." Dean replies, almost coldly. I'm not sure if he meant it that way or if he was just trying to get his point across, but I feel my breath hitch in my throat as I step back. Blending into the wall as I lean against it and trying to catch any bit of fresh air blowing in through the open door. Shutting my eyes tightly as Crowley hands the First Blade into Dean's open hand and ignoring the knots in my stomach as best I can. When I open my eyes Dean is half way up the stairs, looking down at all of us with a look of reassurance on his face that never reaches his eyes. I want so desperately to run up after him, to tell him that there is no way I'm letting him walk into this alone. Instead I remain rooted in my spot. Unable to force my feet to move forward. Plus, I wouldn't make it up two steps before Sam or Castiel would snatch me up. So I continue leaning against the wall, remaining out of the fight just as Dean had told us to.

Then again, I've never cared much for doing what I'm told.

"I've gotta go outside." I state plainly, after pacing in the same circle for five minutes straight.

"We're not suppose to leave Penny." Sam replies as he is about to push himself off the wall to stop me while I I move towards the exit.

"Yea, well tell that to my bladder."

That seems to do the trick. As a girl I've learned early on that bringing up anything to do with going to the bathroom will 90% of the time make a man cease up awkwardly. No matter what his age. The subject is instantly dropped and I hug the outside of the barn as I search for another possible entrance. Luckily the family that owns it doesn't seem bothered by the idea of security. Within a minute and I'm back inside. Slipping through a small unlocked window I begin climbing a half rotted wooden ladder that leads to the second floor. I can clearly hear the loud sounds of fighting not far above me. The shouting and harsh blows of fist against flesh. Carefully I slip the spring loaded pistol around my wrist and tuck it under my sleeve.

"Have you never mused upon the fact that you're living my life in reverse? My story began when I killed my brother and that is where yours will inevitably end."

The sound of Cains voice yelling at Dean makes my blood run cold. His shouting goes on while I flick the safety off my pistol and wait for the moment to take him by surprise. As Cain lunges forward and grabs Dean by the shoulders, First Blade in hand, I know there will be no waiting.

"Hey asshole!" I shout as I jump from my hiding place. Catching them both off guard. Turning around to face me Cain and I make eye contact. It seems I was the one thing he hadn't accounted for. Stepping forward I lean my arm out as if to politely shake hands. The sound of the spring releasing the gun from under my sleeve and into the palm of my hand echoes through the barn. Pulling the trigger I stand in utter shock at how accurately I've aimed. The small silver, blessed, and carved into a devils trap bullet pierces the flesh right beneath his sternum. Instantly letting out a small red stream of blood. For a moment he merely stands there, unmoving, eyes still locked with mine. Watching eagerly as the fear begins to wash over me. The understanding that for all my planning and hoping I have done nothing more than provided a good distraction. Grinning Cain raises his hand in my direction and instantly my feet fly out from underneath me. An unseen force flies me across the room. Slamming me harshly into one of the thick wooden support beams with a sickening crack. The last thing I remember seeing is Dean bringing a blade down and taking off Cain's hand in one swift blow.

Then there is only darkness.

* * *

Again, ton of exposition but I hope y'all don't mind. As always thanks for the favs and follows!


	5. Chapter Four

{Chapter Four}

A part of dying that no one ever mentions is that it isn't some storybook moment. It's not romantic or poetic. There is no grand epiphanies or enlightenment. All it does is take, and take, and the world continues on all the same. It's tragic but easy. When it's your time you just go and then it's over. The pain, the suffering, all of it dissipates. The people you care about dying, that's the difficult part. When they're gone the suffering, the pain, it only grows worse, like an untreated infection. Leaving behind a scar unlike any other in its wake. An ache from a partially healed wound still tender to the touch and no matter how blissfully happy life may at times seem you can never really escape it. The sense that something is missing. Another bit left out, is that for those few that have stepped over to the other side and by some happy turn of chance manage to find their way back, well that scar comes with. This time it leaves an emptiness. Always present. A hole inside your soul that at times seems to burn.

As the Impala cruises down the desolate highway the sky outside begins to turn a multitude of shades of pink and purple as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon. I'm not sure how long we've been on the road but at least the rain has stopped. Glancing up I catch a glimpse of Dean as he finally begins to doze off. His head slumping further down the window frame. Inch by inch. Eyes fluttering as he struggles in vain to stay awake. With my head still resting in his lap I focus all my attention for the time being on staying as still as possible. The last thing I wanted was to rattle him and wake him back up. Out of all of us, Dean needs his rest the most. We had all been through something the night before; yet of all the injuries sustained Dean's were by far the worst. Surface wounds while painful are manageable. It's the ones I can't see that's causing the worry to tighten itself around my neck like a hangman's noose. Coarse and unforgiving.

This job had been especially cruel. To no surprise Dean was attempting to conceal it but as per usual I saw through his bluff. What he had been forced to do had taken its toll. A painfully heavy one.

I might not be able to read people's minds clearly at the moment but that doesn't mean I'm blind. Dean is angry with me as well, that much I'm sure of. The clenched jaw and refusing to at me, they're the dead give aways. It's not as if I can fault him for it. He is completely within reason to be down right pissed; none the less, he has fought to keep me from closing my eyes for more than a few seconds almost the whole ride. Every time I find myself drifting off he'll give me a firm shake or say my name loud enough to bring me back from the edge. His hand, which has been so diligently stroking the back of my head begins to slow before coming to a sudden stop. The exhaustion he has resisted for hours finally overpowering him. After ten minutes of watching his chest rise and fall gently in the same perfect rhythm I quietly shimmy myself out of his lap and slide into the opposite seat. Careful not to disturb him.

"How far out are we?" I ask, searching out the window for a road sign or mile marker.

"Another couple of hours tops." Sam answers as he yawns from the front seat. Glancing from the road to the rear view mirror long enough to catch my eye. "You feeling alright?"

"Heads a bit fuzzy." I reply quietly, leaning forward and turning the volume knob down slowly. The head ache from before still thumping away like a bass drum inside of my skull. "I'll manage."

"Give it time, it'll clear up." Sam assures me. His voice oddly solemn as he flicks on his blinker and switches lanes. He is a noticeably more cautious driver than his big brother. A trait I admire given how stressful the situation at hand already is. I have enough on my plate. Adding a panic attack to the steadily growing list of things wrong with me isn't something I'm aiming for. Undoubtedly it'll happen at some point or another just hopefully not this particular already shitty moment.

Unfortunately for me Sam was right. Bit by bit my mind was beginning to clear. Even through the painful haze I was beginning to make out just how much of a massive fucking idiot I had been. Honestly, I have messed up more times in my life than I care to admit. More times than I could ever hope to count. Half of them I was too inebriated to even remember. All of it paled in comparison to what I had gotten myself into this time. I had managed to screw up to such a degree that it had ended up getting me killed. Trying to wrap my mind around my own death is about as difficult as it sounds.

Getting knocked out is one thing. Obviously it's not the funnest of experiences but I can bounce back from it relatively well. The few times I was forced into playing sports for physical education in school I almost always ended up with some form of mild concussion. I was just one of those poor kids that had a knack for getting hit by the ball. Not to mention all the black out drunks I experienced in college. In other words, being out cold is a feeling I am fairly familiar with. This though, this was entirely different. It wasn't like a deep sleep you eventually wake up from. Dazed and with no sense of time.

This was the end.

As certain as the changing seasons. Inevitably it comes for us all. A lucky few pass of old age, surrounded by the ones they love. It creeps up on others like ice on asphalt or a bullet in a battleground. Just like life, it doesn't matter what events lead to it. What choices brought you into its cold embrace. All of our lives begin the same way. They end the same way too. Rubbing my temples I try not to remember just how that had felt. The dark hopelessness that offered no resolution, no catharsis, only emptiness.

"Is Cain dead?" I mutter, my eyes fixed on Sam's reflection in the rear view mirror. Instantly his hazel eyes, a shade so similar to his brothers, meet mine briefly. There are dozens of questions I urgently wish to ask but for now I'll settle for just this one. No matter how hard I try I can't hold it in. The guilt is already too strong. If my impulsive intervention had somehow led to Cain's escape I doubt I'll ever be able to forgive myself.

"Yea." Sam sighs, quickly turning his attention back to the road and pulling off at the next exit. Mile by mile we're getting closer to the Bunker at what feels like a glacial pace. I want desperately to get out of this car. To be alone where I can curl up with my own self loathing. No matter how illogical it may be. Guilt effects each of us differently and this was all on me.

I can't deny that. If there's anyone to blame for the state I'm in, it's myself. Why hadn't I just listened? Just done what I had been told for once and stayed downstairs with the others like I was supposed to? Maybe than I wouldn't have to feel this way. This shame. Sure I was alive again but at what cost? How on earth was I back? All these thoughts and then some keep my mind racing even through its haze all the way to Lebanon. Turning them over and over again inside my head and trying to make some sense out of it. To find an explanation where none existed. Not a logical one at least. There was; however, a few possibilities.

"We're back." Sam announces tiredly as the Impala makes its way into the Bunker's massive garage before coming to a stop.

"I can walk." I lie to him as he rushes from the driver's seat to support me. His hands catching me by the elbows as I nearly fall onto the floor while opening my door. The sudden movement snaps me out of my daze and I find myself slowly able to focus. Gradually the murmuring of others thoughts begin to drift through my mind. Not yet legible but present all the same. "Just help Dean."

Nodding Sam hurries to the opposite side of the vehicle and lightly wakes his brother. Me, I'm still trying to find the strength to rise to my feet. Finally doing so sends my head spinning like a swivel. Holding onto the door for support I manage to push myself away from the car gradually and instead walk to the front passenger side. During the ride back I had noticed how worn and weak Castiel seemed from where he sat slumped in the front passenger seat. Oddly enough he seems much worse off now than how I remembered him before Dean walked up those barn steps. Watching him struggle with the door handle only strengthens the suspicion growing in my mind. Truthfully I'm not the most well versed when it comes to knowledge of angels but I had gone to church enough as a child to remember the stories. Growing up in the south it wasn't really an option. If what I thought was true, and by some literal miracle Castiel had brought me back I'm sure it's related to how worn down he looks.

"Let me help." Opening the passenger side door I reach down and lightly pull the angel out of his seat by his arm. Gradually slipping it over my shoulder to help him get to his feet. Again my head spins but I force myself to keep my grip on him. Helping to support his weight with all the strength I can muster which; if we're being realistic, isn't very much.

"I assure you this is unnecessary." He tells me, his voice sounding raspier than usual as I help lead him around the front of the car.

"I thought angels weren't suppose to lie."

Forcing a slight grin I try to lighten his mood even though my own feels so terribly bleak. I at least owed him that. I owed all of them. Questions linger on the tip of my tongue but I bight them all back. This wasn't the time or place. Truthfully, I'm not sure if I'll ever feel at ease asking them. Perhaps it's best if I don't know. They do say ignorance is bliss after all.

Sadly, you can only deny the truth for so long. Yes, we had all made it back to the Bunker in relatively one piece but this doesn't feel at all like a victory. There wont be any celebrating the fact that Cain had alas been laid low. It's a small comfort considering the cost. Dean is in bad shape, that much was obvious. Taking out Cain had done something to him. Not to mention the fact that I had taken an already horrid set of circumstances and somehow managed to make it even worse.

By the time Castiel and myself reach the library both of us are mere moments away from collapsing where we stand. Pulling out chairs opposite each other the two of us slump into our seats. Him leaning back with closed eyes and me burying my face atop my crossed arms and allowing my cheek to rest against the cool wooden tabletop.

"I know." I sigh a few minutes later. Slowly raising my head to face him. Each of our eyes tired as we stare at each other across the table. "I know I died."

"Normally that would be unexpected." He begins, his deep blue eyes peering into mine like he can see every sin that stains my soul. "But considering your abilities..."

Watching closely I can see the confusion in his face. Struggling to find the proper words to explain it. Perhaps because none exist. An understanding Cas and I are both reluctantly coming to. Blowing a soft raspberry in defeat I rub the spots out of my eyes and try to find my bearings. Glancing around the room and forcing my vision to adjust. The shimmer that appears to outline everything has yet to completely fade but it's improving.

"I don't know what happened after, but I'm guessing the fact that I'm here now has something to do with you." I continue, again catching his attention as his gaze gradually drifts back up. "So thank you."

The smallest of smiles pulls at the corner of his lips, though he says nothing in return. I'm not sure if he simply doesn't know how to reply or if so few people had said those words to him that he had forgotten how to. Regardless, I knew from that point forward that I would always be indebted to the angel in a trench coat. I had taken my life by being an impulsive fool and he had given it back to me. At an evident cost to himself. Sitting there in silence I hope this will be temporary. That tomorrow or if I was lucky perhaps later tonight Cas would be walking around, still a bit groggy but not this drained. A prospect that seemed as unlikely as Dean waltzing in like normal with a beer in hand and tossing jabs at his little brother.

Neither would be happening any time soon. Of that I was certain. Returning to sitting with my head atop my arms I listen to the sound of Sam's heavy foot falls leading through the hallway and towards the entrance of the library. When he enters the room my head flies up. Far too quickly and for a second everything spins.

"How is Dean?" I ask almost involuntarily.

"He's just washing up." Sam replies, chuckling slightly before turning his gaze to where Cas sits. A weightily expression washes across his face as if he is trying to communicate something to the angel in a single glance. Sure, I could sneak a peek in his head and find out just what it was that he was so uneasy saying in front of me. After everything last night though...the idea of listening in just felt like an extremely disrespectful invasion of his privacy. He had a right to his own secrets as I did my own. One of which is doing a hell of a job of keeping me off my game. Leaning back into my seat I rest my head in my hand and stare off into the distance. Looking at nothing in particular. Sam has yet to sit down, opting instead for standing with his hands in his pockets. The room is unbearably silent even so it's as if a thousands voices are yelling at me, except this time they're all mine own. Echoing endlessly inside my skull. Screaming at me to leave. To stay. To make a decision that I wouldn't regret.

Sitting inside a home that isn't mine, I can't help but consider the possibility that perhaps all this had been was me invading their business.

Some truths take longer to reach than others. Maybe this was one of them. Clearly things would have been much better off for everyone involved if I had listened to my aunt and minded my own. Dean would've found a way to defeat Cain without my interference. Castiel wouldn't be slumped in his chair, half exhausted from having to pull me back from the precipice. Gripping the corner of the table I push myself up from my chair. Through my exhaustion I put on my best mask of normality and stop delaying what should have been done days ago. It doesn't matter that all I had wanted was to help or that for the first time in months I felt as if I was actually doing something of substance with my life. Something that I can hold on to when everything else goes to shit.

Instead I had only made things worse.

As Sam and Cas begin talking in hushed voices I seize my opportunity for a quick exit. I'm almost of the room when I hear Sam call out to me. His voice is calm yet slight hint of concern.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

I haven't been the most conversational but I've made sure to always tell the brothers goodnight before making my way to bed. Just as I had always told them good morning or thanked them for bringing me dinner. For giving me rides to the corner store whenever I realized I had forgotten to pack something I needed. For all the countless little things they did. They had taken me into the comfort of their home on their own accord. Their generosity far exceeding my expectations. Small acts of kindness were the only repayment I had offer. Hospitality was engraved in me from an early age. Hurrying off to bed without so much as a word.

This wasn't like me.

Ringing my hands I take a quick glance around the room. Trying to take a mental picture to remember it by. The perfectly smooth oak tables. The smell of decades old books filled with endless knowledge. Sighing I finally muster the courage to look Sam in the eye. The expression on his face certainly doesn't appear as if it's waiting eagerly for my absence but I know things will be better for it. Trying to act as normal as possible I force myself to keep a firm grip on my emotions as my eyes drift back and fourth between the two of them.

"I'm gonna pack up the last of my stuff." I respond, pointing over my shoulder in the direction of the dorms. Not at all expecting the look of disappointment I receive from both of them. An emotion they're each quick to conceal. I suppose goodbyes were more along the lines of what they're accustomed to. Even if they were most often unwelcome. "I should probably get going. I'm sure Myrtle's running low on groceries."

"At least get some sleep first." Dean suggest while stepping into the room. In my anxiety I hadn't heard him coming and jump slightly at the sound of his voice. A damp towel drapes over his shoulder while he continues to pat his face dry. Bits of crimson spotted here and there atop the white fabric. He looks better. Cleaned up at least. Even so, I can see the beginnings of bruises along his cheeks. A small cut stands out scarlet along his thick bottom lip as he walks in my direction. Again I find myself ringing my hands. This time more nervously than before. "Plus..." He continues, gently taking a hold of my chin while raising the corner of the towel to my face. Slowly he begins dabbing off the bits of blood that I had missed earlier. "If we take you back looking like this I'm scared of what your aunt might do."

I want to chuckle and play it off as if this whole situation hadn't thrown me for one big loop, but I can't. Standing this close to Dean without one of us yelling at the other felt oddly intimate. My breath hitches in my throat as I can feel Sam and Cas's eyes on us. Each of them slightly taken back by Dean's sudden politeness. Sure he had been nice to me over the past few days but I knew he was never at peace with my being there. A part of me knew it was because he didn't like the idea of some untrained clairvoyant trying to help. The other half simply suspected he just didn't like me. Perhaps I was too quite or didn't take things seriously enough; yet now here we stood. As I reach up and slip the towel from his hand my eyes meet his and for a moment I don't feel like a stranger. Truthfully I'm not sure what I feel but I can't help but sense that something has shifted between the two of us.

"Okay." I nod, trying to smile and feeling like I failed at it. Taking a step back I put some much needed space between the two of us as I hand him back his towel.

"Well, if you'll excuse me I think I'm going to go sleep for four days." He responds sarcastically. Waving to his brother and Cas before turning and giving me a slight nod.

This wasn't like Dean.

As he exits the room it's painfully evident that for all the false bravado, for all the bad jokes he uses to try and cover it up, he was in deep trouble. The mark was taking a hold of him, and gripping tighter with each passing day. All I want is to help. To find some way to rid him of it but after what I had done. How foolish I had been. Thinking back now I know he had been right about me. Even if he was kind to me now, what he had said last night was the cold hard truth.

As long as I was around I was always going to be a liability.

Without another word I slip through doorway and practically run to my current room. Grabbing a change of clothes I tip toe to the locker room and pick the same shower stall I always do. Eager to feel clean even if it's purely in the physical sense. The water warms up in under a minute and after stepping in l carefully duck my head under the shower nozzle. Shortly after do I first see it. All the blood. As the warm water continues to work its way through the dried tangles the water circling the drain turns almost crimson.

Running my fingers through my hair has the sickening effect of clarifying just how I had died. As I carefully pat around the back of my skull it becomes overtly clear that something has happened back there. The amount of blood rinsing out of my hair was proof enough of that. Not to mention the remaining tenderness and the fact that the bone in some places felt almost soft like an infants. Bathing quickly I rush through the usual routine and breath a sigh of relief after finally shutting the door behind me in the room I would only be occupying for one more night. Tossing my laundry into a small bin beside my bag to wash early tomorrow, I at last collapse atop my bed. Hoping that the sweet escape of sleep will offer me some comfort.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Something is ripping me apart. Tearing away at my flesh viciously like a rabid animal only I can't see anything but the horrifically deep gashes its claws leave behind. People say you aren't suppose to feel things in your dreams. Well either that's straight up bullshit or something was seriously wrong here because I can feel everything. Every single tear and rip echos through out my body. Searing white hot and impossibly more painful than the one before it. Little spots cloud my vision as my eyes begin to blur and judging by the crimson puddle steadily growing around me I know what this means. I'm dying again. Only then do I take notice my surroundings. I was home. Back in aunt Myrtle's kitchen. The counters she keeps so clean are splattered like a crime scene; yet the shiny black dishwasher is remarkably free of blood and as I'm about to loose consciousness I catch a glimpse of my face in its faint reflection.

"Wake up!"

The sound of Dean's voice breaks through the haze causing my eyes to fly open. I find myself still partially fighting him will balled fists. Pushing him away as I continue instinctively trying to rid myself of whatever I had been struggling against in my sleep. His eyes are wide and his face is flush with worry as he struggles to get a grip on me and force me to focus.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there tiger." Gripping his shoulders tightly I find myself taking in short panicked breaths. Feeling the tears still pouring over my cheeks as the realization of what I had seen sinks in.

"Myrtle." I gasp, shoving my way out of Dean's grasp and off the bed. My knees crash down as I stumble. Pulling myself back to my feet just as clumsily I dash over to where my bag sits atop the small desk. Instantly I begin digging vigorously for my phone. Tossing out other items with little regard.

"What's going on?" I hear Sam ask from over my shoulder. His voice still heavy with sleep as he staggers through the doorway and flips the light switch.

"Penny stop." Dean steps over to me and tries to take a hold of my hands. "It was just a nightmare."

"No it wasn't!" I stammer. My voice sounding even more southern in my panic. I hated it but I always turn into one of those Scarlet O'Hara southern bell types when my emotions overcome me. "I know what nightmares are and this ain't any kind of nightmare."

"Tell us what happened." Sam suggests while stepping further into the room. Floor boards creaking under his bare feet. He too is in his sleep clothes and his hair looks more tousled about than usual. It must be fairly early if neither of them had woken up and gotten dressed yet. Normally they always beat me to it by at least an hour. A truth Dean found necessary to remind me of daily in an assortment of annoying jokes at my expense.

"I was home." I explain as I slip my hands from Dean's and return to digging around in my bag for my phone which of course would pick this moment to pull a vanishing act. "And something was attacking me, tearing me apart only I couldn't see it."

The tension in the room increases ten fold the instant the words slip from my mouth. Halting my search for a moment I eye the two brothers carefully. Something I've said has unnerved them, that much is obvious. Giving up on my bag I hurry pass the two of them and begin digging through my jacket pockets. Trying to remember when I had last used my phone. When I had last heard from Myrtle.

"Is there anything else?" Dean asks. His gruff voice is noticeably more serious than just moments before. He knows something but between the stress and his attempt to hide his thoughts from me it's impossible to get a clear picture.

"I turned and saw a face in the reflection of our dishwasher." I fight to keep my voice from shaking as I answer him. What I had seen in my sleep again flashes so clearly in my mind. Sending and icy shiver down my spine like the feeling of blood streaming down warm flesh. A thousand razors nicks all at once.

"And?"

"It wasn't mine." I reply, still struggling to keep my emotions in line. "It was Myrtle's."

"How are you sure this wasn't a dream?" Sam asks calmly but I can sense the worry growing steadily inside his mind. A memory from years ago that he has tried so hard to block reveals itself if only for a moment. It's as if I'm trying to watch a real of film with only a single frame. One twenty fourth of a second isn't long enough to make out much of anything; even so, I know it's somehow related. It feels almost familiar. Whatever it was, Sam was doing a heck of a job at keeping it hidden in the back of his mind.

A talent that must run in the family.

"Because I felt it." I lament, struggling to focus on what I'm doing. Only then do I feel the smooth round corners of my phone in my left pocket. "Found it!"

Quickly dialing my aunt's number I ignore courtesy and the fact that it's still in the wee hours of the morning and wait anxiously for her to pick up. It rings and rings and rings. One after another they go unanswered and it's as if I can feel Myrtle slipping a little further away from me. Biting down on my lip as my right foot taps hard against the floor in frustration. Pleading desperately for her to answer.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up. Myrtle pick up. Please pick up..."

I hate feeling this helpless. I call her number five more times before tossing my phone across the room where it lands roughly atop my bed. I have to wrap my arms tightly around my sides to keep myself from trembling.

"I have to go." I announce without another moments hesitation. Maneuvering quickly between the two brothers and gathering the bare minimum of my essentials. If this turns out to be a false alarm and another one of my many fuck ups I will be the happiest girl on the face of the earth. Please, let me be wrong about this. "I'm sorry I know this is shitty timing but I have to go."

"You're going right now?" Dean asks, brow raised in bemusement. "Penny it's a twelve hour drive."

"I'll take a bus." I answer, again ignoring good manners and slipping out of my sleep shorts and into my jeans. Normally this sort of thing would cause my cheeks to turn as red as each of theirs has but I'm too distressed and in too much of a hurry to be concerned with modesty. As I start to fumble with my shirt Dean steps forward and reaches for my arm. "Stop doing that!" I shout.

I've never truly yelled at Dean before but I can't take it any longer. If he doesn't stop I'm about to march out that heavy duty bunker door and walk to Lafayette Hollow if I have to. Still, he has yet to let go of the hold he has on me. His eyes never straying from mine as the two of us stand there. I can't help but feel bad for snapping at him, particularly given what he had just gone through. Even though I would never say it aloud I was becoming attached to both of the brothers. At first they had came off as a bit more coarse than what I was used to but the life they live requires it. Granted I hadn't known either of them for more than a week and all of us have had our share of disagreements over those few days, but after what we had gone through together I felt connected to them somehow. As pathetic is it might sound, outside of Myrtle, they're my only friends.

"I'm sorry." I sigh, gradually pulling my arm from Dean's hold. "But she's my family. If there's even a chance that what I saw was real and something happens to her because I did nothing I'll never be able to forgive myself." Seconds tick away like hours. The only sound coming from the small brass oscillating fan I had found and kept running in the corner. Normally I found the white noise calming but it did nothing to help me in my current state. The brothers were intrigued enough to be concerned yet neither them, nor I was entirely certain as to how to handle a situation such as this. A common issue these days but a shitty one none the less. There was never a simple resolution to things anymore. "I have to go."

"Alright." Dean sighs, nodding his head as he rubs his hands through his hair. Breaking the uneasy silence that's lingered like a toxic fog. Pooling at out feet and creeping its way into our lungs. Poisoning each of us with more tense anxiety with every passing second. "Meet me in the car in ten minutes."

"Dean let me take her." Sam insists, yawning while trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"I've got this one Sammy." Dean says with firm resolve. Something in his tone makes it clear that this wasn't a subject for debate. For whatever reason he seems determined to be the one to take me away from this place. An understanding that stings a little worse than I had expected. Perhaps Dean didn't really care if what I had seen in my dream was real of not.

Maybe he was just ready to be rid of me.

I must look as crestfallen as I feel because as soon as he disappears through the open door Sam's attention falls on me. A forlorn look on his face. Glazing up at him from nearly a foot below I try to force a hopeful smile but the muscles in my face don't get the memo. Instead I find myself ringing my hands and trying to figure out how to say goodbye to someone I think may actually slightly care.

"Look Sam I'm sorry." My eyes drop to the floor. A thick cloak of shame wrapping itself tight around me. "I wish I could have been of more help."

"Penny stop being so hard of yourself." He assures me, stepping forward and taking a hold of my shoulder. A kind an gentle giant as always. I feel like a smurf standing this close to him but he simply smiles down at me. Offering even the smallest of comforts and before I can stop myself I wrap my arms under his and squeeze him tight.

It's the first time I've hugged anyone outside of Myrtle since I first discovered I could read minds. It always just seemed too much of a risk. Physical contact strengthens the bond between one soul's mind and another's. Frankly it's the reason I never expected to be able to date or have friends again. What if I were in the middle of having sex with some guy I love only to see another woman's face pop into his mind? Or discover a close confidant had been handing out my secrets like fliers? It's simply a safer bet to keep my distance but I hug Sam all the same.

Another small comfort that neither of us can force ourselves to admit we desperately need. If only for a moment. A handful of passing seconds that in the grand scheme probably wont count for much but as he wraps one large arm around my shoulders and gives me a slight squeeze I know it matters.

True friends. People who sincerely want what's best for you don't come along often.

"Keep in touch Winchester." I pat his arm softly as we separate.

"You too." He replies, smiling slightly before turning around and exiting the room. Leaving me behind to gather my belongings with only my fear to keep me company. Yes I may have gained a friend, but I was by no means ready to lose my aunt. I pack my things quickly and finish getting dress. Only taking the liberty of allowing myself to brush my teeth and throw on a fresh coat of deodorant before sprinting to the garage.

To no surprise Dean is dressed and leaning against the side of the Impala, waiting for me.

"Took you long enough." He mumbles as I hastily open the passenger side door and toss my bag in. My only reply is a unforgiving glance over the Impala's newly polished roof. His face softens with guilt, something I hadn't been expecting but he says nothing else. That bit I had saw coming. I know better than to expect an apology from Dean Winchester.

Neither of us speaks as we make our way towards town. With each passing mile I attempt to prepare myself for a cold goodbye and a tense twelve hour bus ride home. My heart thumps like a hammer against my chest as the lights of the small downtown come into view. As we pull onto main street I reach into my bag and retrieve my wallet. Taking count of how much cash I have on me while trying to calculate roughly how much a bus ticket to Louisiana will cost. When I look back up I'm more than slightly confused to find the lights now growing distant in my side view mirror.

"Dean the bus depot is back-" I begin but cut myself short when it occurs to me what's just happened. "Dean turn the car around."

"Penny shush." He responds simply, as if that resolves anything.

"Dean-"

"Penny stop." He exclaims, turning his attention from the road just long enough to look me in the eye. It's then that I see it. He truly does feel guilty and not just about him giving me a hard time before we left. It was something else. Whatever it was, it's why he's doing this. Reading his thoughts isn't necessary, his demeanor is testament enough.

"You said it yourself. It's a twelve hour drive plus you need rest." I reply a bit too sharply. Time to back track. "Look what you just went through was really fucked up, and I specialize in fucked up."

"We're not talking about this." He groans, reaching for the radio but I palm his hand away. I wasn't getting cut off this time.

"Dean I can handle this alright. You don't have to worry about me."

Again his gaze falls on me long enough for me to second guess my previous assumptions about why he was doing this. The car rolls to a slow stop at the last light in town before we hit the highway. I was running out of time to convince him to let me go this alone. After my poor attempt at helping failed so miserably I can't bare the thought of owing him any more than I already do.

"Plus, you were probably right." I lie. "It probably was just a nightmare."

As his attention remains firmly on me it feels as if he can read my thoughts instead of the other way around. He knew I was lying, that I didn't believe for a second that what I had seen was a nightmare. I wonder if this is how people feel when they're around me? If so I can understand why everyone is usually so stand offish once they find out. I'm not certain but I'm 75 percent sure my boss, along with a few other co-workers, has a suspicion as to what I am. They're polite but I never get invited to barbeques or birthdays.

"If you think that, than why are you high tailing it to Louisiana?" Dean asks coolly, already knowing the answer to his own question. The light ahead of us turns green and the engine roars back to life. Accelerating loudly beneath us. All I can do is sigh and buckle my self in. Reaching forward again Dean succeeds in turning on the radio, this time with no resistance. "That's what I thought."

The drive is long and uncomfortable with nothing but flat lands and barren crops to gaze at along the way. Hoping to calm myself I reach into my bag and pull out my journal. It takes another two minutes of searching but I finally dig out a pen. To most people keeping a journal is a bit of an outdated concept. With practically everyone on social media these days it's pretty redundant. Most people share their thoughts with countless others online every time they go shopping or pass gas. Me, I don't have anyone to be social with so I see no need for social networking.

Out of the corner of my eye I can just make out Dean watching me. Sitting up in his seat and trying to discretely look at what I'm doing while remaining aloof and paying attention to the road. I do my best to ignore him and focus on what I know. Scrolling through my phone I count the hours since my last call with Myrtle then add them to the suspected amount of time to drive back home. There was a full days difference. If what I had seen had already happened we would be too late. Suggesting to Dean that we call the cops does me no good either.

"It implies we know something." He says gruffly, the sleep having entirely faded from his voice. I hate to admit it, but he's right. God forbid something does happen and because I tried to help I instead get blamed.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the first time.

"Fuck..."I mutter in a tense whisper, tapping my pen nervously against the faded lines of my journal. Next to me Dean scoffs and it's just enough to get under my skin. "What?"

"You keep a journal?" He asks, his voice sounding more curious than sarcastic.

"Yea." I answer simply and again he scoffs. His eyes now firmly kept on the highway as it stretches out ahead of us. It feels endless, giant in the way you think of god as a kid. There isn't another car for miles. Not a single set of head lights but ours as the radio hums Led Zeppelin I. The audio quality isn't the best but Robert's voice still comes through clear as a bell.

" _Always the same playin' your game  
Drive me insane trouble is gonna come to you."_

"You just don't strike me as the journal type." Dean remarks, quickly peering down at the worn pages in my lap.

"Dare I ask what type I do strike you as?" I counter a bit defensively. This was not the time for anyone, least of all Dean, to be pushing my buttons.

"Not the journal type." He answers calm as always. It seems nothing I ever say has much of an effect on him.

"Well, that really narrows it down." I mumble, rolling my eyes and focusing on putting up a mental barrier between my mind and his. Truth be told, I didn't care to know what type of girl Dean thought I was. More than likely it would just make me feel self conscious or want to smack him. "If it makes you feel any better, I didn't keep one before."

"Before what?" He asks, clearly not connecting the dots on his own. In all honesty Dean was actually a very intelligent man; even so, occasionally the simplest things would go over his head. Leaving Sam or I with the job of having to spell it out for him. Mostly I don't mind. It's not often that I get the upper hand with him.

"Well, if you hadn't noticed Dean I can read people's minds." I state rather bluntly. Beyond the point of caring about putting on airs.

"Yea no shit." He agrees without reserve. At least we're on the same page for once.

"And that sort of thing tends to make people uncomfortable at best." Closing my journal I stash it back in my bag and try to lean back in my seat. Hoping to calm my tense nerves. Talking about it helps but that's why I keep a journal these days. Most people, normal people, prefer to stay in the dark when it comes to matters such as this.

"Yea but you can't help it." Dean reasons, a reaction I wasn't at all expecting.

Whenever the subject of my abilities has came up in the past he's always acted oddly put off by it for a Hunter. People in his line of work; more often than not, are acquainted with a handful of psychics and the occasional clairvoyant. Sam told me one night, that they had even came across a few in their past. People like myself whom convinced him rather quickly that such things were entirely possible and helpful. One, an old friend of theirs, had been killed while helping them on a hunt a handful of years back. A ugly truth Sam never said out loud but he didn't need to. I saw it clearly in his mind.

"Like that matters?" I counter, my mind drifting back to the conversation at hand. Taking in a deep breath I gaze out the perfectly clean windshield. Dean kept his 'Baby' immaculate. The sun turns the sky an iridescent lavender that seems to cloak everything in sight in it's own cool glow. Even Dean, the picture of American masculinity is draped in it's light. "If there is one thing I know for certain is that people lie. Literally everyone, and most get away with it because trust..."

Gently sighing I turn myself face him. Finding his expression oddly somber as he glances back at me. Clearly not expecting me to open up to him to such a degree. In all the time we had spent together this was the most we had ever spoken in a single setting. That didn't stop me from knowing things about him that he was trying his best to keep tucked away in the black matter of his brain. Locked away for as long as possible to keep it from destroying the ones that matter most to him.

I was just leveling the playing field.

"Trust is something that's suppose to be gained." I continue. "That's why the easiest person to lie to, is the one who trust you the most."

* * *

Sorry, sorry, sorry! I feel terrible about the insane lag between chapters. Work has been hectic since the beginning of the year but it has started dying down so updates should start coming regularly again. As always thanks for sticking around and the follows/reviews. Y'all are awesome.

-Mary


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